


The Ties that Bind (and Sometimes Strangle)

by Raikishi



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Byleth Twins, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My Unit | Byleth Twins, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-11 22:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 157,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raikishi/pseuds/Raikishi
Summary: He sees them again.As toddlers, Bylead tottering after his sister in a clumsy line, his grip on the table edge, his expression solemn and stern.As five-year-olds, Byleth running ahead of her brother, pausing every now and again to offer him a hand when he stumbled.As teenagers, Byleth at her brother’s back, bearing the weight of a man’s weapon, ensuring Bylead’s safety and maneuverability, allowing him to reach over her for a counterattack.Jeralt smiles distantly. He was not fool enough to believe himself a wonderful father but he’d done what he could to ensure they survived. To make sure they would open their eyes to the next dawn. That they would walk side by side to whatever future awaited them.--------A retelling of the story with the Byleth twins.((M!Byleth/Dimitri, F!Byleth/Claude, minor F!Byleth/Edelgard))





	1. White Clouds: Twins

**Author's Note:**

> A retelling of the story. Male Byleth/ Dimitri. Female Byleth/ Claude. Tags will likely be updated later on for eventual smut.
> 
> I wrote this because I played Golden Deer and got sad. And then I played Blue Lions and got sad. 
> 
> Not a meant to be a golden route more of a ... band-aid on some particularly feel bad moments

> **20th Horsebow Moon, 1159.**
> 
> I am terribly worried about the boy. He doesn’t cry - neither of them cry - but he keeps clutching his heart. He squirms and scuffles soundlessly as if he’s in distress and unable to alert us. Sometimes in the night, I swear he stops breathing. Not for mere seconds but minutes on end.
> 
> It’s a terror to greet him in the morning.
> 
> My mind keeps turning to the worst.
> 
> But he proves me wrong each time. Each morning he’s alive. Blinking at us from his crib. Solemnly. The two of them are always so solemn. As if they have seen this world before.
> 
> Rhea doesn’t seem to think he’ll live very long. She doesn’t say it but I can see it in her eyes. And well… there’s something there i don’t want to think about.
> 
> I think if I pull at that thread, I’ll know why she died as well.
> 
> I don’t know that I can do that just yet.
> 
> The twins are too young to be left alone, should I –
> 
> _A dark blotch of ink bleeds away the words from the rest of the page._
> 
> It seems to help when I put him by his sister. She reaches for him always whenever he’s not there, little arms always searching. When they hold hands, they both sleep so much more soundly. Peacefully, like little cherubs. I’ve started keeping them together for now.
> 
> I just … I don’t know what I can do.

* * *

  
Bylead awakens in increments, stumbling into this life with the clumsy grace of a newborn foal. He slips from war and heat to his bed, rigid and uncomfortable as the ground the old king had died. In a blind attempt to protect his back, he turns and finds himself falling into another dream. A throne room. Empty this time and fraught with a ghastly chill in the absence of the young girl. Shuddering he tries to pull the sheets closer to himself but his hands find nothing to hold. Only hard stone meets his palm.

He awakens fully, uncomfortable and uneven, feeling as if he had made a misstep along the way.

He sits up, looking round for his sister first. Always blindly seeking her.

The last mission had been rough. She’d come back angry and though she didn’t show it - neither of them are particularly good at that - she’d taken to their room early last night. 

Byleth blinks back at him from the windowsill. She is a solid shade beneath the moonlight, a shadow carving out a space against the night sky. She looks at him for a moment longer. Assessing.

“Another dream?” she asks, mildly.

Bylead shakes his head. Not the correct one.

“Oh? Today was the first night I did.”

It strikes him as wrong. Byleth never dreams. She’s never the one to walk those battlefields. Never the one to cringe before the striking demands of a girl who looks so thoroughly through his soul he feels worn away. Bylead frowns at his sister as he approaches, noting the deep bruises beneath her eyes. Bruises brought about by a dream rather than the latest mission.

She lets him fuss, tilts her face in the moonlight obligingly as he looks her over.

“Which?”

“The one with the girl,” she elaborates.

He did not expect that. Had always preferred Sothis and her solemn throne over the fall of a king.

“She asked me my name and did not seem to hear me when I replied. She called for you and seemed alarmed when you did not reply. In one breath and the next, she was gone again, leaving me alone in that room.”

Byleth smiles, a sharp little thing. It’s a smile reserved for particularly irksome missions and it sits wrongly in Bylead’s chest for his sister to think of Sothis in such a way.

“I did not find it quite so comforting as you do.”

Bylead doesn’t speak, instead crossing his arms as he nudges for her to move enough so the two of them share a seat on the windowsill. Moments later he feels Byleth lean into him. A solid weight against his back. Her head drops heavily against his shoulder.

“Maybe you’ll pass it back to me,” Bylead murmurs sleepily as he settles in.

“You’re welcome to it. In fact –“

A commotion outside.

The twins jump to their feet, Byleth’s hand flying to her sword. Her eyes flick over the courtyard below them as if seeking out prey. Pressing closer to her, Bylead turns to the door, fingers grazing the daggers hidden in his sleeves.

“C’mon you two,” Jeralt speaks as he opens the door, pausing a few seconds before he steps into the room. As if he is allowing himself a handful of seconds in case one of the twins elects to attack first.

He raises an eyebrow to see them both already up, “Dreams again, huh? Well, regardless, we have an issue. There’s a group of bandits sweeping into town. Chasing a couple kids.”

“Kids?” Byleth’s tone drops the barest of a fraction as she crosses the room, falling into pace besides Jeralt. It’s enough to convey her disapproval.

Bylead shuffles after them, casting one last look outside as he goes. There’s the barest flash of color through the forest. Azure beneath the moonlight. It flits beneath a thick canopy of trees and he loses sight of them but he can, nonetheless, guess their trajectory. Their path will bring them straight to the inn. 

“Yeah, a the lookout saw them. There’s three kids running towards us at a full tilt.”

“So they’re unharmed,” Byleth says.

“For the moment. You two head to the forest path, try to meet up with them. The rest of the mercs and I are headed east. Seems the bandits have split the group in half and are entering town that way,” Jeralt says, unstrapping his lance, as he looks them both over, “We owe the people of this village a great deal with how long we’ve stayed. Take care not to allow the bandits a new target.”

“Of course,” Byleth replies.

Bylead looks at her and the Ashen Demon looks back.

Bylead only nods, falling in step behind her.


	2. White Clouds: First Encounter

He can see an inn up ahead. Solid rock rising to greet him. A promised haven.

Maybe there he can –

Claude grunts, barely able to come to a stop. He swerves hard, spinning around the woman who’d appeared in his path like a ghost. Her face is pale beneath the moonlight and the blank way she looks at him only lends to the effect.

_Ambush_, is his first thought and he lets himself fall rather than struggle to maintain balance, spinning back up from the ground, whipping an arrow out of its quiver. He comes up to a crouch, arrow lifting to eye level as he stares down the apparition.

In his footsteps, Dimitri breaks through the forest like a force of nature, moving too quick, too fast. He crashes hard into the woman but she doesn’t even stumble, only brings up an arm to brace herself and push him away. It ruins Claude’s shot and he tries not to growl aloud as he rises to full height, shifting to keep the woman in his sight.

“I – my apolog–“ Dimitri bites down hard on the word, his brain catching up to where Claude had gone quick enough. With a grunt, Dimitri snatches himself up off the ground through sheer force of will, steadying his lance in front of him as he glares her down.

Behind him, Edelgard pulls up short, her teeth clicking together, as if refusing to allow any evidence of her surprise. She whips her axe off her shoulders immediately, eyebrows pinching together.

The stranger’s eyes track them for a moment, lingering on the way they stumble and rise up to her challenge, as if prodding for a crack. There’s not a weapon in her hand - her sword is not yet drawn - but the casual ease of her appraisal makes Claude sweat.

“How many?” her voice is soft, pitched low but laced with iron. It reminds him Edelgard’s particular brand of absolutism. The stranger’s gaze flicks out towards the forest, her fingers tracing the handle of her sword, when they do not respond.

“For now eight,” Claude surprises himself with his reply, lowering his bow slightly when the stranger dips her head in a nod of acknowledgement, “Four further ahead than the rest.”

“Can you cover me?” she asks but the flat authoritative inflection indicates it’s not a question.

“Uh –“ he flags as she rushes forward at a speed he wasn’t expecting. He half flails in an attempt to grab at her cape in the unlikely event she goes for either of their Highnesses but she bypasses him with ease. Like a spectre, she passes through the duo, fast enough they each only have enough time to throw up a flimsy half block.

“I’ll direct them to you,” she says, not bothering to turn around, “Be ready.”

“Surely, you don’t intend to meet those ruffians alone,” Dimitri protests, spinning around on his heels to go after her. Claude clicks his teeth. It should take more than a simple offer of assistance to bring the prince over to her side.

“Not alone,” comes from the forest, “Bylead will be here.”

“Who?” Claude asks, his question swallowed up by the second voice that joins them.

“And she has you lot.”

Claude whirls around, hand tightening around his bow as a second person emerged from the inn. Their wouldbe rescuer has a shadow, a reflection. Bylead steps out as silent and blank as she had been; the similarities, extending far beyond mere looks, to both expression and mannerism.

The twins wear the same attire, simple mercenary garb meant for easy travel. But this one doesn’t wear a sword at their hip. This one has neither weapon nor shield. No means of defending himself but the simple confidence with which he moves leads Claude to believe that’s not completely true.

With barely more than a glance, Bylead points at Claude, “The side of the building has a ladder to the roof. Shoot down anyone before they leave the forest if you can see that far.”

“Axe and lance, you both can spread out a little back from the forest line, Byleth will bring them right out in front of you,” he pauses for a moment, “You don’t have friends back there do you?”

“We led them away,” Dimitri says, straightening up properly like he is holding court and then to no one’s shock, bows deep, “Thank you for your support.”

Claude catches Edelgard’s eyes over Dimitri’s head. Her lips are pressed tight in disapproval, her knuckles white over her axe, as if she is ready to turn on both bandit and wouldbe rescuer. Claude shakes his head subtly, willing her down, and she stares disbelief into his skin.

Dimitri might be too trusting for his own good, but this choice is simple. Stranger who hasn’t tried to cut them all in half or bandits who have. Claude turns to head up the roof, ignoring Edelgard’s scrutiny when he does.

Almost immediately the higher vantage brings in a sweeping sense of relief. The dark veil of night lends a sense of protectiveness and the height advantage is reminiscent of being on a wyvern though it is nowhere close.

Claude is no coward, despite what some of the student at Garrag Mach might whisper, but he’s certainly no fool either. He knows where his strength lies. If it means he has to hide and bide his time, picking off enemies before they can even guess at his position, then so be it.

A seen archer is a dead archer after all.

Claude shifts nimbly into position, notching an arrow, holding both the forest and Bylead in his line of view. Edelgard and Dimitri have taken up positions along the forest line, bracketing an opening the woman – Byleth – is apparently meant to make.

As if on cue, a scream lights up the forest air, making Claude’s skin prickle. Panicked disarray carries easily in a shout. And it’s loud enough for him to guess at a distance.

Claude lets his arrow fly in the space of one breath and the next, the release singing sweetly in his ears.

With a gargle, the first bandit to break the line crumples and falls. Two of his friends rush in just behind him, running too close to stop properly. The prince and princess fall upon him like hunting wolves, ruthless in a way Claude had not expected. Who would have thought the prim and proper royalty of Fodlan were so capable. Claude loosens a few arrows in support though he doesn’t think they’re needed.

Edgelgard moves with the indomitable strength of a forestress knight, taking the few blunt whacks from the bandit without blinking. She pushes forward and forward relentlessly and even from here Claude can see the uneasy surprise in her opponent’s eyes.

At her back, Dimitri is a blade, crafted sharp. He moves with speed and brute strength Claude has yet to see in the training grounds, as if he is at last free to truly fight.

"Pay attention,” Bylead looks at him with steady eyes, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, a shade of disapproval on his face, furrowing his brows and darkening the unusually blank expression he had worn previously. 

Claude can’t help but grin at that. Disapproval was a familiar friend, particularly when it settled so firmly on another’s face. It made the man seem more human. More readable.

“Thanks by the way,” Claude shouts down at him as he loosens another arrow into the next wave of foes that rush at them, “If you hadn’t showed up who knows what might have happened. The gods of fortune must be smiling down on me.”

As if the world is intent on proving him wrong, his arrow finds a bandit’s arm instead of his heart. It makes the man twist and sneer at him, raising one hand.

Claude swears as he tries to back up on the roof, knuckles whitening over the shingles as he tries not to slip. The mage’s smile lifts cruelly, his gaze pinning Claude into stillness.

In the mage’s hand, fire blooms like a rose, lifting up from his palm, larger and larger and then –

Dying with its maker.

Claude nearly bites through his tongue in surprise.

Death had come and gone with the elegance of a dance. Wild as the Almyran victory parties.

From behind, Byleth had appeared like a reaper, her blade dark and damning over the now dead mage. The strength and swiftness with which she’d swung her blade down had made her sword sing, sweet and low, as it ripped out a chasm in the mage’s jugular, tearing down one clean gap that makes the man’s head tilt hideously to one side, dead before he hits the ground.

Byleth sidesteps him easily, so light on her feet it’s as if she weighs nothing. She sweeps the blood from her sword with one hard shake, never giving it a chance to settle on the silver edge of her blade. She glances to her twin for the barest fraction of a second.

“Bylead.”

And a conversation and a half flits through the air between them before she is moving again, meeting the last few bandit’s she’d herded into the clearing. Her twin is behind her, a dagger falling from his sleeves, neatly into his hold. He engages with another bandit with the same brutal ruthlessness his sister had done – meting out death with the quick steady movements of a card dealer.

So casual and so efficient, a sliver of a discomfort settles like cold metal against Claude’s back.

Between the five of them, the remaining bandits are easily dispensed. What had, mere moments ago, been a matter of life and death, had become nothing more than a passing struggle. Claude scrambles down from to run up to his saviors, faltering the slightest when Byleth looks at him, pinning him with an unnerving gaze.

“I found more than eight.”

Bylead turns to frown at him. No, not quite frown. Claude has the impression the man’s face merely settles in that expression. Maybe that look earlier wasn’t disapproval either.

They’re both damnably difficult to read.

“My mistake,” he says, linking his fingers behind his head, “Either way, they seemed no match for you – may I ask how – ah, you’re walking away.”

Claude watches as Byleth strides over to Edelgard who is attempting to pull her axe from the ground. The princess’ arm is bleeding and to his great surprise she allows the stranger to lift her arm.

“A mere scratch,” Edelgard’s mouth is moving but the sound that rips the air is not her own.

A roar comes from the forest.

They’d all let their guard down.

Claude swears, as yet another man breaks the forest line, his axe gleaming in the moonlight as he falls upon the pair of women.

The bowstring cuts into Claude’s fingers as they go too slow and too clumsy over his bow.

Dimly, he’s aware he’s not fast enough. His arrow hadn’t been notched – fool’s mistake, as his mother had always scolded – and he couldn’t aim - but, maybe he could –

Claude watches in open horror as the axe comes down. Claude can see Edelgard reach for a dagger, barely able to loosen it from its sheath before Byleth shoves her aside. Byleth brings up one hand to meet the axe, her expression grim. Her eyes like flint as she looks her killer in the eyes, defiance radiant as a flame. As if she can stop the blade with her hand alone, as if she can –

* * *

>   
**20th Horsebow Moon, 1169.**
> 
> It’s their birthday today.
> 
> It’s also the first time Byleth’s asked for anything.
> 
> A blade she says as she wears her mother’s face.
> 
> I wonder if you would be so angry at me for gifting her that. Or perhaps not. All those in the Church of Seiros are crafted from war and battle. Perhaps you would have been angry for granting her one so late in life.
> 
> Hm … if I’m honest with myself, perhaps I gave it to her out of some displaced anger. It never does get easier. When one’s lifespan is so long, what is a mere 10 years. You were still with me yesterday but not today. The twins held their mother for no more than seconds. No longer than it takes for them to blink.
> 
> I wish you were here to train them instead.
> 
> _A few scribbled lines, barely legible._
> 
> Her brother agreed with her. The other mercs had laughed, some more nervously than others. If they could understand Bylead’s expression, perhaps they would laugh for a different reason.
> 
> He’s so adoring of his older sister. Wants to mimic her in every way. He’d pouted when I gave him a dagger and her a sword and then stopped when she commanded he stopped.
> 
> “I’m the oldest,” she’d told him, so patiently, “So I go first.”

* * *

  
Bylead will not allow it.

What a terrible insult.

For his sister, so fearsome with a blade, to fall to some bandit’s axe.

Bylead moves before he can think, leaping in front of his sister. He meets her eyes, grimacing at the cold fury and open despair that crosses her face as the axe rips through him.

_Sorry_, he thinks to say but the blade tears into his throat before he can shape the words.

His death is not clean, the blade is far too blunt for that; instead he feels the slow tear of his skin and muscle, feels the weapon carve him open from neck to shoulder.

He opens his mouth in a scream and the world fractures.

Dirt floor shatters into stone. The children's shouts breaks into silence.

Bylead stared stares back at himself when he falls to his knees. He is in a dream. A familiar dream brought into reality.

“Honestly!” Sothis yells at him, “What were you thinking?!”

A dream but Sothis is so real this time. So very alive. He can feel her breath over his face, cooling the sweat on his skin. Against her throat, he can see a pulse in her pale skin. He thinks if he reaches out he can touch her hand.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he digs his nails into his neck and then his shoulder, pressing hard into skin as if he can summon the wound once again.

“Byleth was standing there,” when he finds his words again, surprised when they fall from his lips without stumbling in his throat even once.

“And what, pray tell, would you have done if you’d died just then?” she yells, “What happens to me? Are you trying to get me killed?”

“I don’t think you die with me,” he says.

“Well, I certainly do not want to test your baseless hypothesis! It’s bad enough I couldn’t find you this morning!” she’s visibly shaken, more alarmed than he’s ever seen her.

_I too_, Bylead observes as if from a distance, watching his own hands tremble. Slowly, he clenches them into fists, willing them still when he opens them again.  


“It was the first time I couldn’t feel your presence. There was no sign of you. As if … well, regardless,” Sothis shakes herself, “You must not do that again.”  


“Am I alive?”  


“Obviously. As much as I am, “Sothis says. She crosses her arms as she paces the room. He watches her take the time to collect herself, “And you have me to thank for it. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt you know.”  


“Thank you,” he says automatically and she frowns even heavier at that, “What did you do?”  


“I have stalled the flow of time for now,” Sothis says.

Blasé as anything.  


As if this is some power she simply has and can throw around should we ever feel the urge.  


Evidently it is.  


He doesn’t quite know what to do with that so he says nothing.  


Sothis looks at him, that endless stare of hers that cuts right to his core, “You can be so endlessly irritating. There’s not a single trace of surprise in your face. Not even fear. As if you feel nothing of your own imminent death.”  


“Imminent?”  


“I stopped time as the blade cut into you. You’re not dead yet. But it is a near thing,” Sothis puts a hand to her head, furrowing her brow as if her head aches just speaking to him, “Oh, what to do?”  


“Can you turn back the hands of time?” Bylead asks.  


Surely if she can stop time turning it back would not be much more difficult.  


And then makes the mistake of adding, “My sister would be upset if I died to a bandit.”  


“Your _sister_ would be upset?!” Sothis’ voice echoes, reaching into the empty corners of the room in her fury.  


Bylead pauses, pondering for a second before he adds, “As would my father.”  


“You – I just,” she cuts herself off abruptly, pinching the bridge of her nose as she mumbles something angrily into her chest, “I cannot believe I have to share my life with such a - a simpleton.”  


“I am not,” Bylead says. Not quite a protest, only a statement of fact. Because he is many things but he is most certainly not a simpleton.  


“Oh, honestly!” Sothis huffs, puffing out her chest as if it can make her much larger. She spreads her hands and a circle of magic lights into existence, “You were correct about one thing. It seems I can do as you asked and turn the hands of time back - not too far, but perhaps enough.”  


Quieter, she mutters, “It will have to be enough.”  


She looks up from her circle, “Away with you now. You really are troublesome to no end. Be certain not to die this time!”  


“I always try,” Bylead offers the same words his sister would and as the world falls apart in pieces of mirror shards, each holding a fleeting second of time, he thinks he hears Sothis scream in frustration.  


* * *

  
He’s facing the right way this time but the attack still throws him off guard. He has no sword, only daggers and he’s not correctly placed. Doesn’t have the stance and positioning to throw his full strength into diverting the man’s blade. He manages a clumsy block, buys precious seconds, enough time for his sister’s blade slips over his shoulder, lending to the brace he’s holding up. It’s awkward for her as well and he can hear her low growl of rage. As if she recalls what had happened. And maybe some part of her does, some animalistic core that lends to her strength and stubbornness.

Even now when their awkward block shouldn’t work. When they should have been easily overpowered by this man, bearing down on them with his full weight. His sister growls and pushes through. Makes it work for them through sheer force of will.

The strength of them lifts the axe away the barest increment. Far enough from Bylead’s throat and shoulder that he can throw more of his own weight back. Just enough for Byleth’s blade to whip out, serpentine quick, the razor edge biting deep into the bandit’s knuckles. Enough to create an opening for Bylead to follow through. He throws the bandit off them, flipping his dagger in his hand to plunge deep into the bandit’s forearm.

With a scream, the bandit withdraws, his axe falling heavily to the ground besides him as he falls back. Bylead glares into the forest, raising a dagger in warning and hears them flee, leaving their leader cowering on the ground. Bandit packs have no loyalty.

“Alright?”

Byleth’s expression, when he turns to meet her gaze, blank as it is, radiates displeasure. The emotion flares in her eyes, makes her gaze scorching in its condemnation. Mutely, Bylead nods, tilting his head in acknowledgement of his recklessness. Byleth’s eyes trace his neck and shoulder, lingering as if her gaze can draw forth that timeline.

As if she can recall it.

Finding nothing, she walks ahead of him, pace brisk, as if she can outrun whatever irritability she holds onto now.

“Father didn’t say to kill them all,” Bylead points out and behind him he swears he hears the girl behind them scoff.

But that is irrelevant. His attention is on his sister.

“Then he should run,” Byleth tells him without looking back.  


Her blade drags against the rocky ground, a rattlesnake’s warning, and at once the leader leaps back to his feet, struggling to hold onto what dignity he has left.  


“Retreat!” he shouts to no one in particular, turning on his heels to flee, running like a wounded animal.  


Not nearly fast enough to outrun Byleth but she lets him go regardless.  


“Hey!” the archer is the first to run up, his green eyes alight prying curiosity, “How did you manage that? Seems to me, there was no way you could have made it in time.”  


There’s something unnerving in the way he looks at them, as if he can pick them apart piece by piece.  


“Claude, that is no way to thank our saviors,” the boy with the lance turns to them, blue eyes earnest as he bows deep before both of them. His blonde hair sticks to his forehead but his eyes sparkle when he comes back up from his bow, “I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. Thank you both for your assistance.”  


“That was impressive,” the girl his sister had nearly died for chimes in. She’s lifted herself from her crouch, expression no longer twisted in a snarl. Instead, all the fight in her has been carefully folded away to something regal and collected, “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Edelgard von Hresvelg. I did not expect to see such a display of skill here. I wonder if you might –“  


“Hold now, Edelgard. I, myself, was hoping –“  


“And here I was hoping to get to know a person first. Build a lasting friendship slowly –“  


Bylead can already see Byleth losing interest, her attention dropping elsewhere as the children bicker. Her gaze turns to the forest again, as if there are enemies still and she cannot afford to loosen her guard, taking her lesson from what had happened - or did not happen - mere seconds ago.  


Or perhaps the children are too young for her, little cubs still unaccustomed to battle, running off adrenaline. They shine with pride, the delight of a first win puffing out their chests like little songbirds. They bicker like any children would.

_Well, not you two_, Sothis quips and Bylead barely tamps down his startled reaction.

_Oh, it seems you can hear me,_ she sounds surprised and then delighted, _How lovely. I thought I would have to wait until evening to lecture you._  


Bylead crosses his arms, thinking how to best reply. Perhaps thinking would be sufficient. It would be troublesome to have to physically speak with someone who could share his thoughts.  


“You are distracted,” Byleth cuts through Sothis’ next sentence. Byleth is still looking at the forest line as she speaks, her voice scarcely audible above the baiting and teasing of the three nobles. Sensing his gaze, her eyes flick to him, focusing in on his shoulder. Something like cold fury drops over her features, as if she had seen him cut and is berating herself on being too slow.

_How odd_, Sothis says, Surely she cannot remember it. _When you turn back time, it’s as if the events simply did not occur._  


But his sister always did run on animal instinct and her eyes narrow on him like a predator, as if she can read truth from his face alone. He dips his head in a nod, lets her examine him and find nothing. He’ll tell her later. When there are not so many prying ears.  


“Tell me,” Dimitri says suddenly, “Where does your allegiance lie?”  


Interest gleams in the nobles’ eyes, Bylead can see ambition lighting in them all. Nothing concrete and solid just yet; only distance shades and thoughts lingering for the moment. Nothing tangible that any one of them can grasp just yet. For the moment they’re still just children, full of curiosity and eagerness. It’s enough to make Byleth prickle besides him. She never did like dealing with nobles and their desires.  


“We’re mercenary,” Byleth replies nonetheless and then when no one responds to that, she turns to leave them.  


_I’ll go survey the forest_, goes unspoken but Bylead understands.  


“Hey, now,” Claude lifts a hand, stepping forward as if he means to stop her, “Do you think there are more? I can assist.”  


_Intent on building a friendship indeed,_ Sothis marvels as the Claude sidles up besides Byleth. His eyes are sharp as he looks over Byleth’s form, lingering on her arms and sword and then back to her face. A grin lifts his lips as he stares openly at her, mouth parted in yet another question.  


In the distance, hoofbeats lift to a crescendo.  


Father coming to join them all and as if they had coordinated somehow, another shout rises from further in the forest.  


“The Knights of Seiros are here!”


	3. White Clouds: Golden Eagle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for the comments. It's been a very long time since I've gotten into something enough to write a multi-chapter fic ((think Quizilla old)). I have the next few chapters planned out so hopefully won't be too much of a wait in between.

Byleth had never thought to question her father. Had never asked where they had come from. Had never asked where they laid their loyalty.

To Kingdom.

To Empire.

To Alliance.

It hadn’t mattered. Each place had only existed. Lingered in her periphery as they moved, a blurred detail that had mattered less than their latest job. Their latest enemy.

Her loyalty laid in her family and sometimes expanded to the mercenary Jeralt cared for. Her allegiance laid in hers and her own. It had been enough for her to watch their backs. To ensure no one within her tightly wrapped circle would ever succumb to a blade or arrow. It was how Jeralt had raised her. Had crafted her and her brother as weapons and instructed them to watch each other’s backs. To hold family first and foremost.

In the corner of her eye, Byleth can see Bylead shift uncomfortably at Alois’ attention and booming voice, the faintest furrow in his brows giving away his discomfort. He’d always been far too open with his emotions.

Byleth leans into him, bumping their shoulders together in assurance and he returns the gesture with an air of gratitude. Neither of them had thought - had even suspected - their father had kept them so blind.

But in the end, Byleth supposed that didn’t matter.

Family first and foremost.

They’d lived their entire lives watching each other’s backs. None of them had faltered when Bylead had first come upon those insistent dreams he kept so closely to his own chest and sometimes lost himself in. None of them would falter now.

Byleth straightens, hardening her own resolve as this stranger – friend – associate? – of her father’s rends open a chest of information she had not known existed.

The Knights of Seiros.

His and Her Royal Highnesses.

Lord Reigan.

And not the least of all –

Jeralt, the Blade Breaker.

Byleth thinks it’s a rather suitable name. Her father had been ruthless in his training. Blade breaking had been the least he’d done to ensure they all survived another day. Training sword after training sword had shattered like glass beneath the point of his lance, the heel of his boot, and once even the strength of his knuckles.

Dimly, Byleth wonders if her mother had been the same. Blade Breaker and …

She cannot imagine what her name could have been. Cannot imagine who or what came together with the Blade Breaker to shape the Ashen Demon and her Shade. She shakes the thought, instead focusing on Alois’ words as if they were gold pieces, tucking each little nugget of fact into her own chest.

“Your father led the Knights of Seiros,” Alois says, his eyes sparkling with open admiration. As if he is a squire still, running after a man he hoped to become.

“Yes, now goodbye,” Jeralt dismisses.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re – wait a minute!” Alois exclaims. He puts his hand on Jeralt’s shoulder and Byleth is surprised when her father allows it, “I must insist you come back with us. I have so many questions for you!”

From anyone else it would sound like a threat. From Alois it sounds like an old friend inviting them for tea.

Byleth expects her father to refuse easily. Instead, Jeralt sighs, hanging his head.

“Even I know better than to run from the Church of Seiros.”

Yet another surprise.

At her side, Bylead touches her wrist ever so gently, tapping the bare skin there, and she taps back. Where her brother had touched bare skin, she taps the keen edge of a dagger, carefully hidden. Their own little gesture of danger.

“Come now,” Jeralt says to the rest of the mercenary, “Time to pack it up.”

It’s the first time Byleth has seen her father look so resigned. There’s a tension to his spine, a weight over his shoulders. She dislikes the way it makes him slump and cast his face to the floor instead of upwards.

A man walking to his execution.

Unthinking, Byleth reaches out to squeeze his hand, a there and gone gesture of affection and solidarity. An unspoken offer to take some of the weight.

Jeralt smiles at her. Fondness smoothes out the harsh lines of his face and lightens his eyes a little. He holds her gaze for no more than a dusting of seconds, before he dips his head in a nod and turns away.

Acknowledgement and appreciation shining through.

But not acceptance.

Byleth watches her father as he goes with Alois. Discomfort rumbles low in the pit of her belly. Makes her want to take her father and brother by the hand and flee.

“Oh, so you will be traveling back with us,” Edelgard’s pleasure is unconcealable but she makes an attempt anyways. Like a wolf holding her teeth back amongst a herd. A mercenary's greed in noble wrappings.

The lords all look to Byleth, intent. As if they were assured in their ability to bring her to their side with nothing more than a word. And if she refused, well … there was not room enough in Fodlan to escape their grasp.

_So this was the difference between nobility and royalty_, Byleth doesn’t allow the thought to show on her face.

Her lack of contact with royalty was now a lost blessing.

She straightens, looking them all in the eye before bowing low. Appropriately respectful.

“The pleasure is mine,” she lies.

* * *

  
The monastery is enormous, larger than Byleth had expected. The walls are thick and imposing, essentially impregnable. And not for lack of trying. Byleth can see a few faint scorch marks on the outer walls along with a few chips and dents from stray arrows. They’ve been softened by time, soothed out by the winds and rain, so they no longer stand out but they are scars nonetheless, evidence of warfare and battle.

“Garreg Mach holds a strategic position in central Fodlan,” Edelgard explains, eyes on Byleth’s hand as she traces the arrow marks on the windowsill, “The mountain ranges make an attack difficult and it touches Empire, Kingdom, and Alliance territory.”

Their trio of children had been insistent on keeping them company outside the Archbishop’s chambers while they await Jeralt’s return. Over Edelgard’s shoulders, she can see Dimitri attempting conversation with her brother. Who, while not replying, somehow kept the conversation going by nodding in the right places. Bylead was dutifully performing his own reconnaissance. As if they had already accepted what job laid in their future. 

Byleth’s attention flits back to Edelgard again.

“Father said there hadn’t been war for many years now.”

Claude snorts and makes no attempt to hide it, hand on his chin as he looks her fully in the face, unabashed.

“I suppose that would depend on your definition of many,” Edelgard says after a long moment and though she doesn’t quite call Jeralt a liar, Byleth can read it in her face. Sensing her gaze, Edelgard bows her head slightly. Not quite ashamed - no, there was too much royal in her blood for that - she says, “My apologies, it is not my intention nor my place to question your upbringing but it’s difficult to believe you have lived your entire life in Fodlan.”

“Not a lot of people can say they haven’t heard of the Church of Seiros … or Garreg Mach,” Claude says and winks at her, “But if we’re your first introduction, it almost makes our meeting fateful.”

“Only you…” Edelgard mutters and Claude grin wider at her, as if he feeds off the disapproval of others. The princess shakes her head, refusing to rise any further to his bait, and turns her attention instead to Byleth once more, “You seem untouched by Kingdom, Alliance, and Empire as well. You don’t seem to have any particular loyalties beyond your father. Who so happens to be one of the greatest, missing, Knights of Seiros. Your simple presence seems an impossibility.”

“Impossibility?” Claude sighs, “The world is large, princess. This is why I call you naive.”

Edelgard’s eyes flashes with annoyance and Byleth cuts in before they can start bickering yet again, “Is it an impossibility still if there are two of us?”

“Heh, as I was going to say. Unlikely, but not impossible,” Claude winks at her, “Guess we’re on the same wavelength.”

Edelgard’s scowls at him and then quickly smooths it out when she looks at Byleth again, “I did not think you the kind to jest.”

“I wasn't. It was a statement of fact.”

Edelgard smiles as if Byleth's told a great joke and Byleth has to admit it's quite nice. The smile makes her softer and more friendly, as if she is one of the village girls running up to ask for a hand fetching water, “I do not know how long you both will be here. I know this place well but it can be overwhelming. If you have any questions you can certainly come to me.”

“And if the princess is a little too stiff for you, I’m always around,” Claude says, “Love to bend your ear a little more before you pack up and hit the road again.”

“Making friends already?”

Byleth straightens incrementally as her father exits Rhea’s room. She sees Bylead do the same.

Jeralt looks no better than when he’d first left them behind. His steps are slowed and weighed. Not enough for any stranger to chastise him for dragging his feet, but enough for both Bylead and Byleth to see. He frowns at the group of them and with no small amount of effort pulls away whatever weariness had shadowed him.

“Come, Rhea wants to meet you both.”

“Well, this is where we leave you then,” Claude says though he makes no move to get up from his seat on the windowsill.

“Come now, Claude,” Dimitri insists, placing a hand on his shoulder, “We have other duties to attend to.”

“Always the stickler. Y’know someday you’re going to have to break that good little two shoes act. Actually - that might be fun. I’m looking forward to it.”

* * *

  
Their next mission is absurd.

So much so Bylead thinks anyone else would have laughed aloud.

He doesn’t think Seteth would take that well. He doesn’t think Seteth is taking any of this well, actually.

“Are there not enough teachers?” his sister’s tone is flat. Unamused.

Bylead can read the tension and displeasure radiating from her entire being but these people are unaccustomed to her so they don’t react.

Rhea looks kindly upon both of them, radiating a motherly protectiveness that makes the room feel too small. Too suffocating.

Sothis is uncharacteristically silent at his side. She’d turned over Dimitri's family name over and over like a stone in water and then groused about being sleepy, when Dimitri had been speaking to him, but no longer. Her attention is wholly focused on Rhea, her brow furrowed as if she could summon forth her lost memories. She's not quite tense, not to the extent Bylead is, but there's a low sense of wariness levelled by curiosity.

“There was one professor with the students on the night of the attack,” Rhea’s words shakes Bylead from his thoughts.

“And he ran off at the sight of the burglars,” Seteth says, his expression dark with derision, “We can hardly have such a person take up command of these students.”

“So we are to be teaching the same class?” Byleth asks.

“No,” Rhea says, pleasant enough but Bylead sees Byleth’s hackles rise.

Displeasure at being separated or distrust of the motivations behind the move.

Bylead can’t quite discern just yet, but the coolly placid way Rhea speaks to both of them is enough for him to educate a guess.

She’s gentle enough to soothe any first misgivings but not enough to hide her goals and resolution. There’s something in her eyes as she looks over the two of them, assessing in a way neither of them are accustomed to. Not simply a means of gauging their competency.

_“As if you've taken something from her,”_ Sothis says in a voice that’s almost mournful.

It’s not a comfort to realize that Sothis is right. To realize that Rhea looks at them as if she can pull something from within them. As if she is searching for something beyond both of them. As if they’d taken her greatest treasure and held it tauntingly out of her reach.

Bylead is reminded of one man who’d paid them to steal back gold from his brother. He’d had a similar wild look, half mad with greed and righteous fury.

Rhea’s gaze is no mirror image but a shade of it, carefully restrained or perhaps not yet realized. So similar to the young lords she sought to guide.

Sothis sighs and it’s rife with sadness,_“Enough, I’m going to sleep now. All this thinking and your dancing around your distrust irritates me.”_

“Byleth will replace him,” Jeralt cuts in and under his command, Byleth's resistance dies like a blown candle. He sets one hand on her shoulder, a small attempt at comfort. Or apology,

“Bylead, you’re going to assist with Hanneman’s chosen class.”

“He is a leading expert on Crestology,” Rhea says, “He’d been asking for a little more time of his own this year to focus on his personal research.”

“But we aren’t typically separated,” Bylead says and he does not like to be.

He is meant to be besides his sister. They’re meant to watch each other’s backs on and off missions. Jeralt grimaces but says nothing, only looks away as if he is ashamed of being unable to come to their aid.

Rhea is the one to meet his eyes instead and instantly, Bylead finds does not like the full weight of Rhea’s gaze.

“I can assure you, you will still be together as often as you would like. There aren’t so many places to run in the monastery despite it’s size.”

A threat?

“I doubt we can lead lessons on politics,” Byleth interjects and Bylead carefully does not sigh with relief as Rhea’s gaze lifts off him, “We’re mere mercenary.”

“Yes, well - typically, we would not allow anyone to assume a position here,” Seteth says stiffly and then as if he is borrowing someone else’s words, “But your skills as a mercenary, in command and strategy - though I have yet to bear witness - have proven themselves valuable. The students here would have much to learn from you.”

“And you are most certainly not the only professors,” another voice joins them. A man dressed in grey robes enters the room besides a woman who appears his utter opposite. Politely, he bows to them, “I am Hanneman.”

“Manuela,” the woman says, eyes flitting over them like a skipping stone before landing on their father. She smiles invitingly.

“If you require any assistance, please do not hesitate,” Hanneman says, brows furrowing heavily at his fellow colleague. He makes an effort to smile as he reaches out to shake Bylead’s hand, “I look forward to working with you for the year. The students were quite taken with your skills. I wonder if you might have a Crest of your own. When next you have a moment to spare, I insist you pay me a visit. We can delve into the subject further.”

He hasn’t stopped shaking Bylead’s hand.

“I suppose,” Bylead says, the words wrung from him and Hanneman beams, at last letting him go.

Bylead casts his sister a glance.

“I suppose we have to acquaint ourselves with the house leaders. I can guess who they are,” Byleth says, making a half turn. She nods at both Hanneman and Manuela, “A pleasure.”

“As new professors, you can have first choice of the house you wish to lead,” Hanneman says “Even if you are assisting me, you’re welcome to select for us both.”

“Thank you,” Byleth says and then turns to their father, holding his gaze steadily for a long moment. Her gaze is accusatory and prying, demanding in a way she never is.

“I’ll see you both at dinner tomorrow night,” is all Jeralt offers.

A clear dismissal and Byleth doesn’t quite click her teeth but Bylead can tell it’s a near thing. He offers her his arm and lets her guide him away.

* * *

Were she someone else, Byleth might come to the assumption that the Church is intent on keeping her brother and her separate.

But surely that is not the case.

Byleth tracks her brother from her window as he makes his way towards the student dormitories. He is a clear dark shape in the distance, easily spotted from her vantage point. And as if sensing her gaze he looks up in her direction. There’s not a chance he can see her but it is still a long moment before he turns away and continues on his way.

He’s uncharacteristically distracted. She can tell by the pace of his walk and the slight tilt of his head. Every now and again she can see him drop his guard completely, moving as if he is in wrapped deep in the middle of their mercenary group.

It’s foolish. And more importantly, dangerous.

Byleth grits her teeth. Kicks her singular bag under the bed. And exits her new room with the intention of seeking out her brother.

She finds Edelgard instead.

The princess has one hand raised to the door, preparing to knock, and her lavender eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise.

“I’ve heard you accepted a teaching position here,” she says, recovering smoothly, “Pity. I had hoped you would lend your strength to the Empire. But … you may well have the chance to lead the Black Eagles.”

“Did Rhea ask you to give me the tour?” Byleth asks, leaning against her doorway, arms crossed. Her fingers linger against the dagger hidden against her upper arm. A gift from her brother before they’d separated.

“Nothing of the sort,” Edelgard says, “I was hoping you might be willing to indulge us in a private lesson.”

“I’m not a teacher yet.”

“No, but I imagine you’ve been tasked with learning more about the students before selecting a house,” Edelgard says, absolute confidence in her own assertions, “The Black Eagles are all eager to display their talents. As for myself, I would like to see your skills in combat once more. In the light this time. This will serve an excellent opportunity for us both.”

There’s a challenge in Edelgard’s words, hidden in a bid for her favor.

“A royal decree by her Highness?”

That throws Edelgard off. The princess blinks at her, mouth parting in surprise. Inwardly Byleth grimaces. Perhaps not the best way to speak to a royal.

“By no means. Here, I am only a student. A student with considerable interest in your talents but a student nonetheless,” Edelgard says, “You are are not here to entertain my wishes alone and you are well within your right to refuse.”

It’s more forthright than Byleth would have ever expected of a royal. And well … she doesn’t dislike blunt audacity. Byleth doesn’t smile but she uncrosses her arms.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

  
Claude means to seek out Byleth’s brother first.

The one who had moved too quickly. Too surely. Bylead had broken away from Dimitri and him mere seconds after his sister had walked away from them. Had slid between his sister and an axe with the absolute knowledge of what was to come.

Not that Claude held much faith in premonition.

He’d much rather rely on what was before his eyes.

He lifts a wooden shaft to his eye line. His soon to be arrow points out a straight line, rigid and unforgiving, at the training grounds.

Over the straight edge of the arrow shaft, Hilda makes a face at him, just a fleeting shift of her expression before she turns her attention back to Marianne. The two of them were returning from the cathedral. Back from morning prayer. From the same direction, Felix was approaching the training grounds, one hand, predictably, already on his sword.

It’s a morning routine Claude knew well from simple observation. Ingrid and Sylvain will be soon to follow. Bickering like siblings. Then Dimitri and Dedue. One a few paces behind and the other trying to elicit a change to that behavior with the same tired argument he attempted each morning. And then a ruckus would rise in the distance, the sounds of metal clanging together in a bright cacophony.

Morning at Garreg Mach.

No, Claude was not the type for premonition.

But there was no satisfying curiosity with rationale and observation. Which is how he’d come to park himself on ledge just outside the student dorms, in between the training grounds and Bylead’s new quarters.

Claude hums as he lowers the arrow shaft, taking a blade to one end, making space for an arrow head. The work was easy and second natured. The steady rhythm kept his thoughts focused.

Byleth was no less a mystery. But Bylead may be less inclined to run Claude through with a blade for asking too many questions. It hadn’t escaped Claude’s attention that Bylead allowed his sister to speak for him. Bylead had deferred to her orders the night before and in the face of Alois’ boisterous personality, had stepped in closer to Byleth as if she could serve his shield. It was Byleth who stepped in to cut a conversation short when their questions had brushed on even the smallest detail of how they’d lived until now. It was Byleth who had ran into the forest first. It was Byleth who’d given that first order. It was Byleth who –

Now walked the grounds, step by step besides Edelgard.

The blade in Claude’s hands still.

In a rush his mind flicks back to the past few minutes with the steady appraisal of fingers over an open book.

A change in routine. But not the first. He’d noticed a few things mere moments ago. Nothing starkly out of place enough to stir him from his thoughts about the twins fully but he could recall them.

The training grounds had welcomed new faces. More members of the Black Eagle house than usual. Caspar and Petra had been unnoteworthy additions. Lindhardt had been explainable with Caspar’s presence. Hubert and Ferdinand had been unusual but not terribly so. Dorothea had been odd but –

Realization settles in his bones and he rises to his feet the moment Edelgard and Byleth slip through the doors.

Princess was going to be annoyed with him but well, he never claimed not to be a prat.

And there was no satisfying curiosity with rationale and mere thoughts. Claude grins wide as he weaves through students and professors, making his way forward.

The training grounds are particularly crowded. Byleth and Caspar stand at the center of a circle of Black Eagle students, a fixed distance apart. A haphazard tournament.

“Lindhardt, you’re next right?” Caspar says, stirring his dozing friend who only waves a hand.

“Sure, sure.”

On the other side of the grounds Felix was the sole nonparticipant, working through a rhythmic set of swings dutifully as if he had sworn himself as a knight to his blade alone. He doesn’t turn. As if refusing to acknowledge the commotion behind him.

Claude winks at Edelgard, who’d positioned herself on the other side of the grounds, besides her faithful retainer and tries not to grin too wide when she bristles at the sight of him.

“Come at me like you’re going to kill me,” Byleth is saying and the flatness of her voice truly makes it sound like she means it.

Perhaps she does.

Claude tries not to wince at her expression. She’s stern enough it makes even Caspar wilt a little but he approaches her with his chest puffed out, always trying to be larger than he is. Brimming with bravado as he meets the challenge head on.

“Alright, don’t go whining when I –“ he shouts when he charges her, some warcry that would make Rapheal laugh heartedly and approve.

The sound of Caspar hitting the floor resonants like a wardrum across the training grounds.

“Oh my,” Dorothea breathes out, reverent but simultaneously uneasy.

Claude can only agree. He’d barely seen Byleth move. Her feet had remained firmly planted until Caspar had gotten close enough to throw a punch and then she’d come to life like a storm, abrupt and sudden. She’d knocked Caspar’s punch aside with senseless ease and then knocked him to the ground with one hard kick to the abdomen. Claude had seen her falter once, the mildest hesitation, when she came up to kick and knows deep in his bones that she’d just barely remembered herself and would have gone for the head were they anywhere else.

Caspar bounces up, barely hiding a grimace as he charges her again.

Lesson learned. He’s more cautious this time, throwing a few punches that Byleth catches or sidesteps. It makes Byleth more cautious too. The fight moves like the tides. Slowly. Steadily. An ebb and flow that at last tears apart.

To Claude’s surprise, Byleth is the one to break first. She moves forward like a one woman army. With absolute certainty in her own abilities.

Her eyes are intent. A decision made. She doesn’t bother to dodge Caspar’s next blow. Tilts her head slightly to one side. Diminishing the force of the punch to her cheek. Like a serpent, she grasps Caspar’s extended wrist. Her expression unwavering as she follows through. She yanks him forward and then using that momentum, jams her knee into Caspar’s ribs. Hard enough the he chokes on his next breath and crumples, spluttering helplessly.

Absolutely brutal. Claude tries not to grimace.

“Next.”

Not bothering to make sure the student she’d floored is okay.

“Jeez, how’d Jeralt raise you?” Claude breathes and she turns to him now.

“Exactly like this,” she says, “Next?”

She extends a hand to him. An offer.

He snorts, “I’m an archer. Close range is… not where I want to be.”

Byleth only stares at him.

“And if you insist on not learning you’re dead the second someone catches you with your bow,” Byleth says. She glances across the grounds, “If you want, I’ll let you have them.”

“Mine are in my room.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Really? I could run off and not come back.”

Byleth doesn’t reply, only tilts her head at him.

Claude tries very hard to keep meeting her eyes, to keep his smile plastered on his face. Her gaze isn’t so much searching as boring straight through him. As if she can read the secrets from his skin. Can ply his thoughts from his eyes.

Behind her, Caspar lets out one uneasy breath as he struggles to his feet, “C’mon Lindhardt – hey, where’d he go?”

“I would like to be challenging you,” Petra pushes forward, her shoulders straight, her eyes shining with interest. She’s holding two swords.

“Alright, yeah, avenge me Petra!”

“I’m allowed?” Byleth asks, fingering the training sword as if it can shatter in her hands. She glances at Edelgard.

“The training grounds are as much yours to use as the students,” Edelgard says, “And I do wish to see your abilities. All of them. I have every intention, still, of recruiting your abilities for the Empire.”

The princess barely glances at Claude as he passes. Her declaration rings like a challenge in his ears but not to hers. To her it’s a statement of fact. A surety that she can court the new professor to her side.

Claude’s already been dismissed. As if she’s certain he will not return.

Not quite calling him a coward but well …

Claude picks up the bow and arrow to the side of the training grounds. The release of his arrow singing as sweetly as a nightingale in his ears.

He’s surprised Byleth. He can see the flicker in her eyes. A there and gone shade whisking out like fragile starlight. She doesn’t cry out but the she just barely twists in time, the flutter of her cape throwing the arrow just slightly off course to knock her shoulder instead of her heart.

A smile?

“Hmph, I did not think you would accept,” Edelgard says, “You fled so easily the night before.”

“A strategic retreat,” he reminds her, grinning as he darts away from Byleth.

He barely has time to think, whipping another series of arrows as she rushes him. It’s terrifying being on this end. He can see her focus on solely on him and it’s as razor sharp as any sword. Like he’s being hunted. A frog under a wyvern’s gaze. Or, perhaps more accurately, a deer fleeing a wolf. It’s a struggle to keep his feet moving. To try and match her speed, or at the very least out-maneuver her. He’s keenly aware he has few advantages and distance is a major one.

He can’t let her close to him. Can’t even let her even think of reaching him with her sword. He scrambles behind the pillars, taking full use of his surroundings as he fires shot after shot at her. Some make it through her guard but not good enough. He can’t hit anything vital. Misses her heart. Her head. Her throat. She deflects them all by the skin of her teeth but she deflects nonetheless.

His fingers graze two arrow feathers and realization settles cold in his stomach. She’d been waiting him out. Keenly aware of his limited supply of arrows and though she’d let him guide her around the field, he can see now that she’d kept him from his fired arrows. Hadn’t allowed his steps to go backwards. No chance of retrieving.

Claude swears as he barely ducks her blade.

_Come at me like you’re going to kill me._

And she had - the slash had been keen to take his head. And now he’d made the mistake of allowing her in his space. He barely manages to block the next hit with his bow, the training bow straining ominously under the weight of her sword.

This close, he can see the fine lashes over her eyes, fanning over her cheekbones. Her face smooth as porcelain but her strength like iron. There’s still not a single hint of strain. She swings again and hits so hard his arms tremble. Trying and failing to bear her weight. There’s not a glimmer of enjoyment. No hint of plotting. Byleth presses him like a force of nature. And he’d been the stupid human to place himself in her path.

His legs give out as she comes at him again. His heartbeat now a heavy bellow in his ears.

He grunts at the next hit, his bow starting to bend in half in his grip. It wouldn’t last another. Unthinking, he yanks at the arrow string. Unable to pull it taut enough to where it needs to be. But it was enough. Will be enough. He fires one of his last arrows, half blind, stomach dropping as the bow splinters right when he lets it fly. Off mark. He’d nicked her cheek. He reaches for the last arrow in his quiver and swallows hard when her blade presses his throat.

“Yield,” Byleth’s breath is cool against his forehead.

“Yep, yep, I give. I yield,” Claude babbles, “Please get off.”

“Good instincts,” Byleth hums, pushing away from him, “Try that sooner next time.”

“Next,” she calls out and then when he does not move— he absolutely certain he could not stand if someone promised him all of Fodlan in a neat package — taps her blade against his cheek.

“Are you going to get up?”

“Can’t,” Claude gasps, “I’m dead.”

Another ghost of a smile passes over her lips. Or maybe he’s projecting. He likes to think he's funny. It’s also a little hard to think with the ringing in his ears.

“It’d be difficult to continue if you lie here.”

Claude groans. “I’m your handicap then. We need it. C’mon, you’ve protected nobles before. I paid you a whole bunch of gold and now you’ve sworn your life to me.”

“Is that right?”

He doesn’t expect her to consider it. Doesn’t expect her to accept.

“If the others don’t mind.”

No one objects. It should be startling how easily she’d charmed the group simply by throwing a few of them around. Petra gets her fight at last and Caspar is more than ready for their second, third, fourth - who knows - rematch. Felix joins in at one point, requesting a round for himself with surprising politeness. Which just means less grunting and growling. Claude is certain it causes him physical pain to hold back his eagerness. Ferdinand requests a spar with as much pomposity as ever. Even Dorothea requests a brief spar and she coos when Byleth pushes her to the ground far gentler than Byleth had handled anyone else. Claude doesn’t think he imagines the bicep squeeze as Dorothea stands up.

Byleth barely has any more trouble with Claude in her way. For the most part, the fighting shifts around him, Byleth guiding but her opponent also taking no interest in him.

Until Edelgard.

Claude very much does not yelp as the princess charges him with an axe. Her blade inches from his nose, would have split him in two if not for Byleth’s unyielding blade.

“Good,” Byleth utters and Edelgard’s cheeks flush pink at the compliment.

“Who would’ve thought her Imperial Highness could fight so dirty.”

Edelgard scoffs, weaving around Byleth nimbly, spinning on her heels, using the momentum to swing her axe yet again at Claude. It clangs against Byleth’s sword. The sound ringing like a bell.

“If you’re going to offer a weakness, expect others to take advantage,” Edelgard pants out, gritting her teeth against Byleth’s block, shoving hard to disengage safely.

It’s a wild dance. A heavy give and take. Byleth has more maneuverability with her sword and she dances just out of reach of Edelgard’s blows when she can. Parries when she cannot. A seemingly light touch but her follow through is heavy, powerful, and overwhelming as any battle axe. Her victory would be secure but she has to block when Edelgard lunges at Claude. Her movements pinned by his presence at her back.

There’s a faint drop to Byleth’s shoulders as she’s pressed back, as if she was accustomed to someone else covering her in these cases. Waiting for someone to spin a weakness on its head. He recalls her brother had used daggers. Had fought neatly at her back and covered her few openings. Her block is steady still, keeping Edelgard firmly in place. Neither pushing forward. Nor allowing a retreat.

Claude can’t quite see her face but he can see her gaze waver, flick away from Edelgard for a fraction of a second, back to him. Her shoulder shifts, twisting the two of them in front of Claude’s eyeline and he can read an opening there. Unthinking, he lifts his bow and fires. A glimmer of something steals over her. And just as he’s praying he’d read that correctly, she shifts.

Opening a perfect path.

His arrow, weakly strung as it had been, soars on broken wings, wobbling at Byleth’s head at first and then when she moves, knocks Edelgard’s forehead harmlessly, the blunt impact making her gasp.

“Fighting dirty, hm?” Edelgard doesn’t quite glower at him, her expression only mildly softened by something like interest as she regard Claude. He wonders if she’s aware that she stretches herself like she can add another few inches to her height when she speaks to him.

“Nothing is certain on a battlefield. You might be exploiting a weakness or you might be wrong,” Byleth says and Claude will eat his bow if that expression isn’t a smile, “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Indeed,” Edelgard huffs. She bows deep, “Thank you for the lesson. I hope we can continue this Monday.”

Still that maddening absolute certainty in her ability to court the new professor.

She squeezes Byleth’s hand tight and surprisingly, turns to nods at Claude before she spins on her heels. Hubert follows her out without a single glance back.

“I’m certain I didn’t hit you hard enough that you cannot walk,” Byleth folds her arms at him when the rest have cleared out.

“C’mon, help me out, partner,” he smiles at her as he holds a hand out, smile widening as she obliges, her hand cold to the touch.

“Partner?” flat enough to be disapproval from anyone else.

“You can’t deny what happened earlier. We’re perfectly in sync,” he means to throw an arm around her but thinks better of it. Instead, he elbows her gently, resolutely choosing not to see the way she stares at his arm. As if she’s thinking of twisting it around his back, “You. Me. Golden Deer? We’d be great together.”

“Hm,” is all Byleth says.


	4. White Clouds: Blue Lions

“Are those sweet buns?” Dimitri asks, leaning over the quartet, breathing deep. Familiarity holding him close in its warmth, “And Gautier cheese gratin, onion gratin soup, sautéed jerky … to see so many of my childhood favorites in one meal and the four of you assigned to meal duty? I daresay you all are up to something.”

Ashe blushes, ducking his head a little, “It was Mercedes’ idea. We thought we’d come together to make you something after all you’ve been through.”

“We thought to make a meal for your saviors as well,” Dedue says, his gaze on the cheese sauce he was stirring. There was still a heavy solemn undercurrent in his speech and posture, still upset about the fact Dimitri had been in such danger without him, “I owe them a great debt.”

“But we didn’t know what they’d like … so we wound up making your favorites!” Annette chimes in.

“I asked them yesterday when I met them,’ Mercedes says.

“What – Mercie, you didn’t tell me that!”

“They said they didn’t have any particular favorites,” Mercedes continues as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “Byleth said her brother would like to come help.”

That was a surprise. Neither twin had seemed particularly keen on extending their hand in friendship, least of all Bylead, who had been content to fall back and allow his sister to speak for him. Even when they’d been waiting outside the audience chambers and Dimitri had had the opportunity to speak to Bylead alone, the man had only nodded or shook his head. Bylead’s gaze often flicked to his sister, as if waiting for her to step in. Perhaps that was why his sister had offered and not him.

“Byleth? So that’s the girl? What’s the brother’s name?”

“Bylead,” Dimitri and Mercedes supply in one voice. Dimitri glances at her in surprise. 

Their names had been one of the few nuggets of information Dimitri had managed. The twins had walked besides them in relative silence on the journey to the monastery, only supplying a few answers when directly asked and sometimes not even then. Jeralt had been the one to provide introductions and Dimitri has the keen sense that he is not very much liked by either of them.

“I’m surprised they gave you their names, Mercedes,” Ashe gives voice to Dimitri’s thoughts, “They didn’t seem to want to be approached.”

“Oh, we can’t make such assumptions without trying,” Mercedes says.

“Yeah … I guess,” Annette says frowning into her pot. She scrapes her ladle a little harder against the bottom of the pot and her face falls when it comes back up with a chunk of something brown and a little burnt, “But they’re a little scary. They don’t really smile or anything just kinda … stare…”

That was true. Dimitri had found it difficult to return their gaze. Their stony expressions had remained firmly in placed as they tore through the bandits. And tore was the appropriate word. Even now, Dimitri finds himself troubled by Byleth’s steady, unwavering, brutality. She’d shaken her blade clean of blood as if she were simply dusting off her shoulders and Bylead had fallen in place besides her like a practiced assassin, his daggers so deceptively gentle it’d made those deaths even harder to watch. Such ease. As if it truly meant nothing to either of them.

Dimitri bites at his cheek, trying to turn his thoughts away.

It would not do to think so poorly of his saviors. After all, they would not have had to act had he not been in such danger to begin with …

And Bylead had allowed the bandit leader to run free along with the remainder of their gang, stilling his sister’s hand with only a simple request. Perhaps there was something human there after all.

Dimitri frowns at himself.

“I heard they were joining the academy,” Ashe says, “If they’re as talented as your Highness says, it would be great to have them as classmates. I’d really like to see them fight side by side. I heard both Edelgard and Claude saying they were quite skilled.”

“It’s a rarity to hear such praise from Edelgard,” Dedue notes.

“More so to hear them agree,” Dimitri says.

“Will the twins both join the same class?” Annette asks, “Ooh, if they were the same gender and height I wonder how hard it would be to tell them apart.”

“We can make it fairly difficult even now.”

“Oh? How so – gah!” Annette drops the ladle she’d been using to stir the soup and it’s barely saved by Dedue who turns to Bylead with a startled frown.

Dimitri swears he hears Ashe utter a little curse, proven correct when Mercedes gasps and hushes him.

“My sister and I switch places depending on the job sometimes,” Bylead tilts his head at them all as if he cannot fathom why they’ve all reacted the way they had.

“My sister asked me to assist and Mercedes said yes… am I too late?” Bylead asks when they continue to stare at him, holding his hands up as if waiting for someone to hand him a task.

“I think Ashe can use some help with the vegetables,” Mercedes says, cutting through the tension with a smile, proving once again she was the bravest of them all

“I can?” Ashe mouths and then hurriedly nods, pretending he doesn’t shrink back as Bylead looks at him, “Oh, I never properly introduced myself – “

“I’ve memorized the student list,” Bylead interrupts and points to each one, rattling off their names, homes and ages as if he were reading from a book.

Ashe and Annette both cringe a little, clearly unnerved but Bylead takes no notice — or perhaps he does, it’s impossible to tell — as he steps forward, coming up besides Ashe.

Dimitri can see Ashe paling at little when Bylead slips out a dagger from somewhere.

“Wash your hands first please,” Mercedes says.

“Please, use this,” Dedue says at the same time, proffering a kitchen knife. One that has probably never been inside a person. Dimitri swallows hard, trying to rid himself of the acidic bile in the back of his throat at the thought.

Dimitri takes a position besides Ashe, rolling up his own sleeves to assist and to serve as a buffer. He takes up the knife Dedue had laid out on the counter, all the while, watching Bylead from the corner of his eyes.

Bylead moves about the space with impossible familiarity. He goes from sink to apron cupboard to knife pantry, without ever having to orient himself or ask for instructions. As if he’d already memorized a map of the entire monastery down to items in each drawer.

His eyes continue to scan the room, flitting from kitchen out into the dining room, as if he were adding to his mental map.

A skilled, thorough mercenary.

How simple would it be for him to walk their rooms in the dead of night. To block off the escape routes and close them in.

The wooden handle of the knife groans in Dimitri’s hand and he blinks in surprise when Bylead steps into his space, hand out, offering him a replacement. Dark blue eyes flick down over Dimitri’s hand once before flicking up to hold his gaze. It is impossible to hold Bylead’s stare and despite Dimitri’s valiant efforts he has to look away.

“Apologies,” Dimitri makes himself chuckle, the sound a little too harsh to his own ears as he accepts the replacement, “I try to be careful but sometimes I do not manage as well…”

Bylead only stares at him for a moment longer, saying nothing before turning away to accept the fresh batch of lettuce leaves and carrots Mercedes offers him. He approaches the task with the same intensity he’d adopted when fending off the bandits. The easy cheer that’d lightened the kitchen is gone, pulled down by an iron weight. The space around them replaced with only the low bubble of heated pots and steady metronome of knife blade against wood.

“Ooh, you’re good at that, Bylead,” thank the goddess for Mercedes. Sweet, brave, unfaltering Mercedes. She even has the unwavering courage to touch Bylead’s shoulder as she leans in for a better look.

“Byleth and I had to split jobs sometimes when father was out,” Bylead glances at her hand for one painfully long second before going back to his work, “She would shop and I would cook.”

“Oh? Is your sister good at bartering?” Ashe asks, seizing on the neutral subject.

It takes a moment before Bylead replies, “I believe it is … difficult to say no to her.”

“Ah. Oh!” Ashe says and does a little double-take, before uttering a small almost hysterical laugh. No one points out that the mercenary pair share such similar mannerisms they may as well have been poured from a mold, “I - ah - I can see that I guess.”

“Where is she now? She was welcome to join as well,” Mercedes says.

Bylead hesitates a moment, “She was meant to meet me.”

Was that a frown?

“Seems she was called over to the training grounds. But she said I should learn more about the different classes. This seemed to like a good opportunity.”

His tone and voice is neutral but Dimitri has the sense that he does not much like being separated from Byleth. It’s a jarring realization, wipes away at the stoic mercenary Bylead had presented himself as.

“You’re going to be joining the Blue Lions?” Annette asks, her voice a little panicked. She blushes red, self-realization dawning quickly, “Um, I didn’t mean it like that. We’d really like to have you, what with how capable you are and all …”

“Byleth will decide such things,” Bylead says and then unbelievably, “She’s older.”

“Wait, what?” Annette gapes at him a moment before she utters a surprised laugh, quickly slapping her hand over her mouth.

At Dimitri’s back, Ashe does the same.

“And as the eldest, she has first say?” even Dedue sounds amused.

“Yes,” stated like a law of the world.

“Yeah, I mean… I guess older siblings can be like that,” Ashe chuckles.

“Aren’t you the oldest, Ashe?” Annette turns on him, elbow Ashe lightly in the back, “Have you been bossing around your little brothers and sisters?”

“I hope not!” Ashe protests quickly and then pauses, “I mean … I tell them to eat properly and all but that’s because they should be!”

Annette snickers.

“I’m also not the oldest,” Ashe huffs, his expression faltering a little, “Christophe was. He didn’t really boss me around though … but I guess I had a habit of trailing after him and following his orders anyways.”

“My brother used to do that when he was younger. He took up sewing with me and mother even though he wasn’t interested. I think he liked to sit with us to keep us company,” Mercedes says.

“Yeah!” Ashe says, “That’s exactly it - you just … look up to your older sibling.”

“Aw, look at you blush,” Annette teases.

“Hm, that must be why you could never tell your older sibling no. Mine always decided the games we played, and I could never bring myself to disagree,” Dimitri says, unthinking.

“Oooh, I guess all siblings are like that huh –“ Annette cuts herself off, frowning into the pot, as a sudden tension falls over the room, the memory of Duscar too close for any of them to dare ask further.

Even Mercedes looks troubled, staring blankly at her dough, her hands stilling for a moment.

Seemingly blind to the shift, Bylead only nods, as if this is obviously within the right of the eldest sibling.

“Byleth would insist on tag even when she became faster than me,” Bylead says, his expression unchanging, as if he is reciting a simple law of the universe, “She would run ahead and then stop and wait for me. She insisted I run faster the next time when she grew bored.”

“Ah, yes,” Dimitri agrees, nodding his head sagely, “I recall mine insisted I learn to dance and then scolded me more thoroughly than any tutor.”

Bylead doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes are a little easier to meet this time, “Byleth gave me a lecture a for allowing myself to be caught too easily and for a year would chase me out of bed at dawn to run in the morning.”

“What?! That’s cold!” Annette laughs so hard she snorts.

“Yes, it was.”

Ashe and Annette laugh at that and Bylead looks at them, almost perplexed at the sound. Dimitri feels himself smile, chest warmed.

To think he’d feared the man as deadly mere moments ago. Bylead was human as any others. Prone to whimsy, prone to friendship. Dimitri smiles as he listens with half a mind. The conversation and easy cheer picking up once again. The tension goes out of Dedue’s shoulders and he offers the barest hint of a smile. Mercedes’, Annette’s, and Ashe’s laughter lift all around them and in the few empty pockets, Bylead offers up a few more stories of his and Byleth’s shared childhood, his adoration for his sister clear.

Idly, Dimitri wonders what it would be like if he and Edelgard had never separated. If they would be as close?

She would surely have something to say about his wavering thoughts now.

Thinking on it, he recalls seeing Byleth besides Edelgard earlier that day.

Unsurprising. Edelgard had always been keen on what she wanted. Unwilling to hesitate. Unwilling to be deterred. The thought of her approaching Byleth with her old one mindedness and determination warmed Dimitri. Fond memories of their youth, when she’d grabbed him by the hand and commanded him about the palace grounds, surfacing. He can’t help but think how charmingly suitable it would be if Byleth were to lead the Black Eagles and Bylead were to head up the Blue Lions.

Siblings at the helm of both houses.

“Ah, professor –“ Dimitri turns, attempting to make his bid.

“He’s gone,” Dedue says.

“What?!” Annette glances around, “We didn’t even see him leave. He didn’t say anything.”

“I guess that’s expected,” Ashe chuckles a little, lifting the neatly arranged bowl of vegetables Bylead had cut, “He finished the job.”

“Wait – did you say professor?!”

Dimitri has to fight down the laughter bubbling in his throat.

* * *

“Get rid of it.”

Jeralt snorts, grinning into his mug, “Told you, you should’ve hidden it in your room kid. You know you have one now right?”

Bylead doesn’t move, doesn’t blink — he’d always been a terrible liar, leaned too heavily on the unnerving effect of his ever-present poker face to ever learn — even as his shirt front moves, “What do you mean?”

With a low sigh, Byleth tugs at his shirt front, extracting a yowling kitten. It’s missing an eye and it’s ears are tattered but it’s fur is neatly brushed and it looks clean. No doubt, Bylead’s handiwork. Half feral, the thing hisses and claws at Byleth, squirming desperately in her grasp. When she drops it on the ground, it bares its teeth at her before darting under the table to tuck itself besides Bylead’s foot.

Jeralt probably should have addressed this issue when they were younger. Should have refused the first time Bylead brought back a broken bird. Looking at them now, he only shakes his head, unable to keep the smile from his face.

They’d grown up so perfectly obedient, never complaining, never insisting, never squabbling. As if they were made and not born. So in these rare fleeting moments where their idiosyncrasies shine through, Jeralt finds he cannot find it in himself to disavow them of anything.

“We’re in the middle of a job,” Byleth says, her disapproval like a heavy weight, “A job we’ve taken blind.”

Experience and time kept Jeralt from looking away from his own daughter’s stare.

“And we’ll be here for a long time,” Bylead says, taking some of the disapproval for himself as he cuts in. He leans down to feed the cat something from his tray. When he comes up, his face is smoothly calm, “At least the school year if we’re meant to be heading one of the three houses.”

“It’s a job nonetheless.”

“I’ll leave him if it becomes dangerous.”

“And I’m to trust you won’t become attached?” Byleth asks, dropping into the seat across from them. Jeralt passes a tray of food over to her, “I don’t want to see the same incident we had within the Kingdom last time.”

Bylead doesn’t quite pout but he goes back to his own food, “We have our own rooms now and a place to stay.”

“Yes,” the barest share of something dark passing over her features, “Deep within the monastery.”

“You decided on a house yet?” Jeralt asks, cutting off her thoughts there. There were too many ears here.

It was safest to fall into the old routine. To approach this as any other job. A one and done contract. Finish this and you’ll be okay. See this one task through and you can walk away. Wipe your hands clean. Never see your contractor again.

“The Blue Lions are well balanced. A good group to break in — so you’d say,” Byleth recites, taking point. Her expression’s smoothed out, taking a cue from him. She pushes the mashed potatoes on her tray absently until there are three groups laid out in a vague map of Fodlan, “The Black Eagles are skilled. Royally bred but unexperienced. The Golden Deer are eclectic … with potential.”

“I should remind you these are kids not horses,” Jeralt says, smiling a little.

“Not so different when they’re this young,” Byleth throws his own words back to him, spoken so many years ago when he’d first taught them to pick up a blade.

“Ugh, to think I raised such cheeky brats.”

“The princess has good leadership instincts. A little impatient but tenacious. She’s not bad with an axe. A little sloppy with her footwork and a little too heavy handed sometimes,” Byleth says, ignoring his teasing, picking at her mash potato map.

Jeralt exchanges a glance with his son. High praise from Byleth whose assessment of a person’s capabilities was typically summarized as good or bad.

“The young lord’s the same. A little too clever for his own good,” Byleth continues, “Tenacious but flighty. It’d be annoying to face him in a second fight.”

Jeralt’s eyebrows dart upwards, unable to hide his reactions but she ignores him, pressing on, “As for the prince …”

Byleth inclines her head to Bylead who muses over his own thoughts for a moment before offering, “He’s a good kid.”

This time it’s Byleth who shares Jeralt’s surprise. Bylead tolerated people at best, preferring to leave social interactions to Byleth and Jeralt. Not that he couldn’t be pressed to assume that responsibility but even during those rare moments, he rarely thought enough of another to shape an opinion.

“You’ll head the Blue Lions, then,” Byleth nods her head, her mind already shifting to accommodate the non-request. Beyond strays, Byleth could be so indulgent of her brother, “As for me … the students of the Black Eagles are talented on their own - the ones I’ve seen at least. I imagine they’ll thrive no matter the teacher. The Golden Deer is more difficult to pin down.”

“You always did like the wild mares.”

“Mocking me?”

“No.”

Their heads bow over their food as Byleth begins to break down the students further, Bylead softly offering his own thoughts in bits and pieces.

Warmth settles in Jeralt’s stomach like a hearth as he looks over his two kids. They’d been mere infants days ago, heads pressed together as Byleth maintained an unbreakable grip on her brother’s pinky. Her brother breathing easily for the first time in days.

He sees them again.

As toddlers, Bylead tottering after his sister in a clumsy line, his grip on the table edge, his expression solemn and stern.

As five-year-olds, Byleth running ahead of her brother, pausing every now and again to offer him a hand when he stumbled.

As teenagers, Byleth at her brother’s back, bearing the weight of a man’s weapon, ensuring Bylead’s safety and maneuverability, allowing him to reach over her for a counterattack.

Jeralt smiles distantly. He was not fool enough to believe himself a wonderful father but he’d done what he could to ensure they survived. To make sure they would open their eyes to the next dawn. That they would walk side by side to whatever future awaited them.

He’d guided his children across mountains and deserts. Fleeing. He couldn’t deny that that was what they had been doing for the last twenty years. He’d grabbed them with a mad man’s desperation, flailing like some wild animal trying to break its cage. Had done the absolute minimum to cover the tracks he’d left because he’d had so much faith in his own capabilities. The lack of soldiers at their back had only cemented that faith.

He’d woven their group neatly in and out of Church territory, never allowing even the faintest whisper of their existence to lift on the winds. He had moved through Kingdom, Alliance, and even Empire territory, his face and name unknown to all those who came upon them. And for all his efforts he gained nothing but complacency. Old ancient fool that he was. He’d allowed them to linger in Remire for too long. Had failed to recognize the telltale uniforms from the Officer’s Academy.

Had been unable to keep them from the gilded cage of Garreg Mach.

Had brought them both straight to Rhea.

Nothing he had done then had turned her gaze away from them.

He had lied, as poorly as Bylead did, straight to Rhea’s face, that these were not the same twins. And she’d only smiled and nodded and closed the cage around them. Ensured in her own victory. Reminding him that all his efforts amounted to nothing in her presence.

The weight of his wife settles around his back. A old grief he feels no less keenly.

For the first time in a while he feels his age. Feels the years wearing at him, a constant tide washing over him, eroding until there was nothing left.

Bylead tips forward a little besides him and Jeralt has such a stark moment of fear he sees it for more than just a simple shift, a ghost of image of his son falling to a blade breaking over his mind with terrifying clarity.

Unthinking, he grasps Bylead’s shoulder, squeezing so tight he can nearly feel bone.

Rhea could not have them.

“This isn’t a just a job. I’m a Knight of Seiros now,” Jeralt tells them both, willing them both to understand, “And you’re not mercenary anymore, professors. I expect you both to adapt and carry out your tasks.”

_We’re not allowed to leave_, the confirmation goes unspoken.

Their reactions are miniscule, all but unnoticeable. Isolated to no more than a flutter of lashes and twitch of their fingers. Byleth presses her knee against his, her attention falling back to her previous conversation, pressing ever forward. At Jeralt’s side, Bylead presses a little closer, making a small noise like a hum as he holds Jeralt’s hand, exuding protective warmth.

* * *

“Unfortunate,” Edelgard says, when the news goes out, her expression deceptively neutral.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” Byleth says, extending a hand, “You all live here. If you’d like private lessons, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I see,” Edelgard says, clasping Byleth’s hand tight, “Then I intend to make the most of my time at Garreg Mach. I look forward to the rest of the year.”

With that, she walks away, Manuela following her out.

* * *

To Bylead, Dimitri snaps an enthusiastic bow, “Professor! I’m honored you’ve chosen the Blue Lions. I still have much to learn, but I’m confident I could benefit greatly from your guidance.”

At Bylead’s side, Hanuman pipes in too, “But before that Dimitri, I believe the new professor and I have some matters to attend to. You did not forget your promise to allow me to test you for a Crest now did you?”

Bylead resolutely does not turn back to his sister.

_“My, my, you think you are grown now?”_ Sothis giggles at his side.

* * *

“Oh?” Claude seems genuinely surprised by the announcement but he tucks it away quickly, replacing it with his carefully crafted enthusiasm as he strides up to Byleth, “And what brought you over? Let me guess, my winning personality?”

He startles a little when she lifts her hand to touch his braid, confidence wavering a little. Byleth can feel the trip of his pulse against the back of her fingers as she grazes his throat. Not quite so calm as he seems.

She tugs at the clasp of his braid.

“I’m a mercenary, I follow gold.”

Claude bursts out laughing at that, a surprise lighting his eyes, “ Y’know Teach, me and you are going to get along just fine.”


	5. White Clouds: Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter got rewritten many many times. Dima pre skip is so hard to write.

“Leave crumbs,” Byleth tells Jeralt when he’s sent away. Their own little saying instead of good luck. Mercenary jobs could be bloody and cruel. It was bad luck to ask for fortune from benevolent beings. So, leave crumbs. Leave a trail in case something happens. Leave something to remember. Or avenge.

“I won’t be gone too long,” Jeralt says, though his expression speaks to his own disbelief.

Rhea had not been subtle in her desire to divide them. Bylead had scarcely managed a dinner with his sister since the mock battle. A fight the Golden Deer had won easily with Byleth on the field and Bylead on the sidelines. None of the Blue Lions had taken that well.

Annette had bent Mercedes’ ear for the last week. Both Ingrid and Ashe had been more subtle in their displeasure, taking up a vow that the Bylead would have his place at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. One that Dimitri had staunchly supported. It was almost touching. And then Felix had nearly bitten his head off when Bylead had tried to return the consolation with the fact that Byleth was faster and stronger regardless.

“And don’t get distracted, kid,” Jeralt says to Bylead, tugging the two of them in a tight hug. His eyes are sad when he pulls back. To Byleth he says, “And don’t go breaking that arm of yours like last time.”

“I was a child,” Byleth huffs.

“That’s exactly my damn point. All you kids are unpredictable little hell cats.”

* * *

“Even without a Crest, one cannot deny your skills are exceptional,” Hanneman says for the fiftieth time that week.

_“Fifty-seven,”_ Sothis huffs at Bylead’s side, indignant on his behalf, _“What a way to pay a compliment.”_

“Thank you,” Bylead voices none of her complaints as he looks over the students’ papers.

The week’s lesson had been in reason and magic theory and while Hanneman could be overbearing, he was a good teacher. His lectures were thorough, capably breaking down complex concepts into simple parts. It allowed him to ably press on with more advanced theories while ensuring those not magically inclined could walk away with at least a basic grasp. Bylead had even picked up a few spells through the course of the class.

Perhaps he should have asked father for a magical lesson sooner. Thinking back on his past battles, there were clear moments where a simple Fire would have been more helpful as a cover than his daggers. Far less limiting too. 

_“Don’t you go being careless now,” _Sothis says,_ “I should like to remind you that spells do indeed have a limit. A far more dangerous one than you running out of your little daggers. Need I also remind you that your life is tied with mine?”_

Right. Of course.

_“I can still hear these little scenarios you are entertaining in your head!”_ Sothis hisses.

“Sure.”

“Wonderful, it will be good to ascertain the students’ prowess and abilities before you lead them for the mission next month. A real battlefield would be no place to learn what they are and are not capable of.”

“I’m sorry?”

Perhaps he should not have allowed Sothis to distract him and so ignores her when she grouses angrily under her breath at that.

“Hm? Ah, perhaps Rhea did not explain. As members of the Church, it is our duty to lend aid to those who require. Sometimes there are bandits or small rebellions to be suppressed - more often in the Kingdom these days. The Church will lend the Knights of Seiros and the students of the Officer’s Academy so that the students may learn true warfare. It is always best to introduce them to a real battle early in the school year. It is important for students to learn the cost of a life after all.”

Hanneman sighs, his expression going sad for no more than a few seconds before he correct himself, “Well - we will worry when the time comes. I shall ask about the availability of the training grounds before I leave for my seminar tomorrow. I cannot imagine you would be so comfortable with lectures in my stead but if you would like I can also provide you with my notes.”

He puts his hand on his chin, stroking his beard slowly, “But I imagine a hands-on lesson would be more practical when it comes to devising battle tactics. All the students were quite ecstatic when I suggested this after the mock battle last week.”

Bylead stares at him.

_“Surely you are not afraid,”_ Sothis says, _“You are. How unbecoming. You are a mercenary. And you have led a great many before.”_

“The classes will each have different assignments?” Bylead asks, still ignoring her.

“Oh, yes. But rest assured, first missions are relatively simple.” 

Eight children under his command. Eight children whose capabilities and strengths he still did not truly know. Eight children unused to real battle. Without his sister at his back.

_“So this shall prove a good opportunity for both you and the students,”_ Sothis nods firmly, folding her arms, _“I shall still be here after all.”_

All it proved with apathy within the church.

As mercenary they set out to make their missions clean and precise. Small groups and battalions were neatly selected. They did not send so many so unexperienced. It was too many additional variables to account for. Opened the door to so many deadly mistakes.

_“I shall lend you my power. Mistakes are easily corrected when you hold time between your fingers.”_

His sister would think mistakes were not to be made in the first place.

_"You are impossible to please.”_

And there were other concerns.

“It will be the first time they’ve killed?” Bylead asks.

“Well, that would depend on the student. I believe death is no unfamiliar face to some of the members of the Blue Lions. But as for their aptitude towards killing another, that I cannot say,” Hanneman looks at him, expression shrewd and considering, “How interesting. The mercenary had described you and your sister as incapable of emotion. But - and forgive me if I’m mistaken, Professor - you worry for their innocence? Is it because of their age, I wonder?”

More perceptive than Bylead had initially given him credit.

“It’s foolish to send untested men into the field,” Bylead says, borrowing his sister's words as he tempers his thoughts, taking great care to keep them from his face.

Hanneman only smiles, a small twist of his mouth resembling a grimace more than anything else, “I see … well, it is good that you can lead them in their lessons on to the next month. My seminar certainly came at a fortuitous time then.”

Hanneman looks at him again, the lines of his face more pronounced. An old man’s concern and Bylead realizes that this is not the first mission Hanneman has sent children on. It would also certainly not be the last. Sympathy is a dull pang in Bylead’s chest and he is dimly aware that the emotion is also half Sothis’.

“I shall trust your judgement,” Hanneman tells him with an encouraging smile, patting Bylead’s shoulder companionably, “I hope you will guide them well.”

Words typically spoken to Byleth and the responsibility weighs heavy on Bylead's shoulders. Bylead inclines his head in acknowledgement, thoughts already turning away. He needs a moment with his sister.

* * *

Byleth had taken to teaching like a goat took to climbing. Unexpectedly and extraordinarily adept, scaling the steep learning curve with the unpredictable ease of a tahr. Bylead had seen her guide her students out of their classroom, heading straight for the outside and recognized the move for what it was, could recall their own childhood lessons set deep in the woods or out on open plains, a mixed patchwork of lessons from Jeralt’s and the many mercenary that passed through their camp.

Childhood games had been anything but. Tag. Lords and Bandits. Hide and Seek. All of them twisted to make for terrain based lessons and strategic maneuvers. You wear the lessons into your bones, father had told them. Make it a part of you so that you don’t waste valuable time on a battlefield having to think through your strategy.

If he closes his eyes, Bylead can pretend the clang of steel weapons were wrought by Jeralt’s own lance instead of inexperienced children. Can summon forth the memories of him and Byleth racing at each other with father standing close by, his face stern but careful. Never allowing them to injure one another too badly while simultaneously pushing them ever forward, encouraging them to push new limits.

He wonders if Byleth knows she holds herself as father did as she strides across the training grounds doling out lessons.

“But Professor, you can’t expect me to get all dirty? I’m a delicate little flower you know!”

“Flowers can be plucked prematurely,” Byleth says, gesturing at Ignatz to hurl another spell, one that Hilda scarcely dodges, “Your job is to prevent that. But if you’d like to be nothing but a pretty display on someone’s mantle feel free to leave.”

Hilda growls at them both, charging forward with surprising vehemence, her expression stony as she swings her enormous battle axe around. Byleth yanks Ignatz to the ground, stepping between them to block the blow. She shoves the axe aside, parrying once again when Hilda comes back at them, this time guiding the axe downwards so it finds a home in the ground.

“Ignatz, if you’re going to stand your ground hurl another spell. Otherwise move.”

“Yes! Sorry!”

“Who’s nothing but a pretty display now?” Hilda mutters, scarcely out of breath as she yanks her axe back up on her shoulders.

“Point proven,” Byleth says, “You’ll be front lines with Raphael for the mission next month. Lorenz, you’ll be be in the back providing support.”

“What?! Professor!”

“Professor, I must disagree with your choices – you would think to so underutilize a noble from House Gloucester?! This is foolish indeed. I don’t have to explain how this –“

“Then don’t,” Byleth doesn’t entertain either of them as she strides over to Bylead, still throwing out orders behind her back, “Ignatz, you’re not done with Hilda yet. Lystithea, Lorenz is clearly distracted - what have I told you about taking advantage where you could?”

“How ignoble – Lysithea! I am most disappointed–“

“Hey Professor!” Claude calls out, a smile lifting his lips but going nowhere near his eyes, as he runs up besides Byleth, “Still sore over that loss from the mock battle? You gotta find a better hiding spot if you’re going to spy!”

“I came to ask a favor,” Bylead says by way of a greeting, already knowing his sister would grant it.

* * *

“If he has no confidence in his teachings then he should resign,” Felix snarls.

“Felix!” Ingrid tries to hush him, her eyes darting to the Professor.

He doesn’t appear to have heard but it’s near impossible to tell with Bylead. He simply seemed to know things. Like how many cookies Annette had stuffed in her desk. And where exactly Sylvain kept his … readings.

“They really don’t like being separated, huh?” Ashe asks, his expression softening as he looks over the twins. Joint lessons with the Golden Deer had begun the day Hanneman had left.

The twins had their heads bowed over the dirt. Byleth scratching out today’s map in the ground with a stick. Certainly not how Dimitri had expected to attend lessons when he’d enrolled. He certainly also never expected his lessons to be centered around things like tag, clearly different though it may be. Tag typically didn’t involve two teams chasing after one another under the rules of a spar. Whosoever fell would then join the other team, continuing until one team stood victor.

War, would perhaps be a more suitable name. 

But still, Dimitri can admit it was helpful in learning his housemates. Far easier to spot their capabilities when outside of organized sparring. Particularly when his housemates sometimes fell into other teams. The grounds outside the monastery also accommodated all members far easier than the smaller training fields. Ashe was an adept sniper and his vicious skills in carving out advantages wherever he could only shone through when he had overgrown bushes and shadows to hide. Felix and Sylvain had both displayed extraordinary adeptness at adapting to new terrains, stepping surefooted as they memorized the land and maps as easily as breathing.

“Pathetic,” Felix interrupts his thoughts, eyes damning as he glowers are the twins.

He hadn't taken to Bylead as well as he had to Byleth. Had been prickly after Bylead had refused him a duel on the first day of class and then had settled firmly into hatred the day after the mock battle.

“She’s better than me anyways,” Bylead had said, had probably meant it as a way of cheering them up. And Felix had recoiled as if he'd been struck.

Thinking of Glenn. A brother he can no longer chase the way. A brother faster and stronger and better than he had been. A brother who’d seemed impossibly large. One Felix had held in the same esteem Bylead holds his sister.

Dimitri had seen it all in Felix's eyes, had recognized the grief, a stark impossible to ignore strike of lightning before Felix had shuttered and closed himself off. Disgust had settled over his features like a stone mask. Hiding the pain he would never allow himself to feel. He’d shoved Dimitri aside hard in his retreat and ever since had been unable to keep the derision from his face each time the twins were together.

Dimitri wonders how much more he is to rob from his friends.

“Arguing already? Good news for us, we love when you fall apart,” Claude says, tripping over the scene gracelessly, not a trace of apology in his face as he smirks at them. At his side Hilda peeps at them curiously, looking only slightly less bored than she had.

Ingrid turns on him, her brow furrowed in derision, only half of it earned, “Weren’t you taught it’s rude to eavesdrop? Are you certain you’re of noble birth?”

“Yeesh, do you even know how loud you were talking?” Claude huffs. A touch too dramatically to be genuine, “If anything, I should be offended on Professor’s behalf. ‘Sides, we gotta break into teams again. So I’m just coming over on dear ol’ Teach’s orders.”

Accepting the conversational change, Dimitri cuts in, “I must admit, I did not think you would agree to joint lessons. Is it a good idea to let us grow accustomed to your schemes?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, your princeliness, any little tidbits you give me is only adding to my schemes,” Claude winks, twirling his braid, “I’m actually looking forward to the Battle of the Eagle and Lion this year. About time the Deer added themselves to that name.”

“Hmph, I shall look forward to whatever you bring my way. If you’d like, I’ll even allow you an advantage,” Dimitri says, allowing himself to be drawn into the easy rivalry because it was better than thinking of other things.

“Great,” Claude says, snapping on the gift with voracious appetite, “In that case I’ll take Felix for my team this time.”

Dimitri decidedly does not splutter at that. At his side, he sees both Ingrid and Sylvain bristle.

“Hmph, so this is what happens when a boar attempts to outsmart men,” Felix snorts, his scowl lightening considerably.

“It’s the spirit of things to mix up the houses,” Ashe offers, trying to play peacemaker, words aimed at Ingrid whose mouth was set in a firm line of disapproval.

“That an offer I hear?” Claude asks, winking, “Archers are always welcomed in the Leicester Alliance.”

Dimitri sighs, shaking his head. He should’ve known better. He can’t help the smile that threatens to lift his face and shakes himself, rolling his shoulder as he lets easy competitiveness wash over him.

“A valuable lesson. I shall not be so foolish next time,” he says and selects Hilda for his own team.

He’s a touch disappointed Claude does not falter at that and then severely disappointed when Claude snaps up Dedue. So much for not allowing himself to be so foolish. Claude winks, damnably knowing, and they trade back and forth for a moment longer. The second they’re done, the twins glance up as one.

“Ready?” Bylead claps his hands together, calling them all. 

Well familiar with the lessons at this point, they all close in around the map Byleth had scrawled on the ground. It’s not particularly artistic but it gets the point across. The river line marks a boundary for them, keeps them far from cliff edges, but the allowed lands are unexpectedly large this time. Enough that there will be patches where they see no one. Dimitri tries to sear most of it into his mind, barely managing half before Byleth kicks the dirt and wipes it clean.

“I swear you give us less and less time every day, Teach.”

Byleth neither denies nor confirms, only glances them all over, “There’ll be a third team. You both have a head start.”

She doesn’t bother to explain, speaking over Claude when he goes to ask, “Start.”

“Why the secrecy? It’s obviously to be the two of them,” Hilda huffs, keeping pace with Dimitri surprisingly well. He’d expected to have to slow a little for her and Marianne but even with a battle axe on her back, Hilda all but skips over fallen logs and hidden footfalls as gracefully as if she were competing in the Heron Cup.

The moment they’re a distance away from both the twins and the Golden Deer, Hilda stops, “Aren’t you going to lead us? You can’t expect us to dodge both Claude and the twins are you? I’d be more helpful with Marianne. Y’know, away from the actual fighting. I’m sure all these big strong guys in your team can handle that.”

“Yes,” Dimitri straightens though he feels a little wrong-footed commanding someone else’s retainer, “I’d like you two to play support with Lysithea and Mercedes. Split off with Raphael and Ingrid into two teams and try to find as many of the Golden Deer as you can. Ashe and Sylvain, I’ll leave you to find Claude.”

“Sure thing!” Raphael says, his voice booming. Dimitri tries not to grimace. Perhaps not the best selection for this game.

“Hm, sure,” Hilda says, casually enough but there’s a low undercurrent of judgement there.

Nonetheless, she skips off with Marianne and Ingrid, the latter throwing Dimitri a wry smile before following. Raphael leads his own cheerful charge, running through the forest screaming with Lysithea at his heels shouting at him to shut up.

“Sure you don’t need someone by your side?” Sylvain asks.

“No, I will push forward. I would rather you find Claude first. It would be to our disadvantage if both teams find us together.”

With a sloppy salute, Sylvain runs off and Dimitri finds himself alone. He takes a slow breath, gathering himself.

These games were always a little nerve wracking. On the training grounds he could keep easy tabs on everyone. Could physically track all of them. Out here, not so much. He has to strain to keep his senses about him, has to think through every movement and keep an eternal map of those he’d sent out into the field. Had to also track his surroundings, keep an eye out for others before they saw him.

The uncertainty never failed to rattle him a little but he supposed that was the purpose of these games. He knew now just Byleth had drawn the bandits that night in Remire. She’d made it seem easy as a magic trick but it was very different to try and apply their lessons.

Dimitri breathes in deep, keeping to the trees and shadows, trying to leave as few traces as he could on his surroundings. There were no traces of people on the path he’d walked. Claude had perhaps split off in the other direction, aiming to keep far away. It would be just like him to bide his time before proceeding with an attack. Had been how he’d won the last few games. Not so much ambush; he’d simply allowed Dimitri to charge into their traps.

Not this time.

Dimitri was intent on–

A shape flashes in his periphery and Dimitri spins sharply, finding nothing. The silent space and empty air makes his heartbeat pick up. There’s a stillness to the forest that hadn’t been there before, a moment between breaths right before something –

A flame erupts pass the side of his head and Dimitri throws himself out of the tree, rolling to beat out the embers eating at his cape. The tree he’d leant against is only scorched - it’d been nothing more than a warning.

Or a lure.

Three more bolts of fire rend the air around him in answer to his question. The sharp acrid smell of magic adding an unnatural bitter twist to the smoke. So like the carriage fire he nearly vomits.

Hurriedly, he presses his cape to his nose, trying to recall the direction the flames had come, trying to think through the muddle in his mind. He shouldn’t have thought of Glenn before the start of this. It made the memories pool too quickly to the surface, made him remember faces in fire and smoke. The heat and embers licking at his skin make it even harder to turn away from them.

Another flame explodes the ground in front of him like a bomb and he hears screams, shrill and terrible. A death curdle. Someone’s last words. Miserable and frightened.

His lance leaves his hands. He’d thrown it. Fool. Careless. To have reacted without thinking and thrown the damn thing. The point of it drives through rough bark, gouging out a deep scar. On the other side of fire and smoke he sees someone dart past. His assailant. His enemy.

With a snarl he barely hears, Dimitri shoves himself forward to retrieve his weapon, snapping his lance in half when it refuses to leave the tree. His attacker is nearby. He can practically smell them. Can taste filthy magic in the air. Can hear them breathing as they ponder over his death. The world around him is so small. On the verge of collapse as those he knows drops away. He can’t hear his house members. Has forgotten their placement in the field. Dedue’s heavy, constant footfalls are long gone.

“_Run_,” father tells him, the blood in his throat making the word a gurgle.

_“I will not let you fall,”_ Glenn swears before his face erupts in flames.

Dimitri senses movement more than sees and with a great roar, lunges, intent on driving the jagged edges of his lance home. Intent on returning the lessons that had been burned into his skin and mind. Intent on –

His broken lance snags on a person. They throw their weight into it and his lance goes wide. Off target. Off center. Dimitri tries to spin it back, raising his arm high to bring it down as hard as he can. All restraints on his strength forgotten. He didn’t have to temper himself. Could finally be free.

A dagger, wickedly sharp, slashes one bright line up his shoulder and his assailant leans into his flinch, into his slack. Taking advantage. They parry his lance, throws it off course, letting it splinter one last time into the ground. Raise a blade to his throat. Behind him he can hear the scream of the knights and he reaches out for the person’s throat. Knows he can crash the fragile -

“Hey,” Bylead pats his cheek, withdrawing his dagger. Blue eyes linger on his face, piercing in its scrutiny, “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

His Professor is unflinching. He hasn’t even taken a step back, only blinks at him even as Dimitri holds his throat. Refusing to relent despite Dimitri’s strength. Dimitri drops his hand like a curse when he realizes his fingers are curling in.

“I, I suppose I lose,” Dimitri laughs and it comes out too harsh, “I … forgive me, Professor.”

"Next time maybe don’t break your weapon first,” Bylead tells him at last looking away. He turns over the handle in his hands, considering, before tossing it aside, “It would have been easier to stab me.”

The image of the lance embedded in Bylead’s head strikes so hard Dimitri nearly shakes apart. Yet another ghost to join the many that screamed besides him. Words splinter in his throat as Bylead examines him again. Thoughtful. Considering. Condemning.  


_Boar_, Felix snarls in his head and he braces himself to hear it from the Professor.  


“Let’s go find the others,” Bylead doesn’t wait for him to reply, only takes his arm and pulling him in step.  


Dimitri sucks in a sharp breath. Relief. And then shame. He tries to pull away but Bylead’s grip tightens.  


“I’m sorry, Professor,” Dimitri offers.  


“For what? You didn’t hurt me.”  


“But I could have –“  


Bylead blinks at him, “I don’t understand. Many things can happen anywhere.”  


“I nearly –“  


“Not really,” Bylead drops his arm, turning to face him fully and on a sigh, as if he is still not comprehending the direction this has taken, “But I suppose if it makes you feel better…if you do it again, I’ll just stop you again.”

Spoken with such casual assurance Dimitri believes him utterly. It’s not quite relief that floods through him. Just a plain simple faith. A belief that Bylead speaks only truth. It seeps deep into his bones and settles the chill under his skin.

Bylead had been unfaltering, fortress steady. Immovable. And not for lack for lack of trying on Dimitri’s part. Looking now, the man barely seems out of breath. Bylead glances about the forest with the same casual ease he’d moved about the kitchen a few weeks ago as if the incident earlier had been truly nothing. It was a mighty relief to know someone so capable of stilling Dimitri’s hand.

“Thank you.”


	6. White Clouds: Weight of a Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H' okay, next chapter's going to be a little delayed as I'll be out for state for the rest of the week and weekends are usually when I get 90% of my chapters done.
> 
> I also rewrote the last scene with Dimitri in the previous chapter. Pretty minor change but something about it was just not sitting right with me... 
> 
> Anyways, have this chap a little early.

> **10th Red Wolf Moon, 1170.**
> 
> Damn them all to hell. 
> 
> Some days I forget what I was thinking starting a group of mercenary. Eleven years later I’m paying the price. I don’t know what I was thinking when I used to defend these damn mercenary against the monks who’d snivel and wrinkle their noses at them but that ain’t me anymore.
> 
> I was gone for two weeks.
> 
> Two weeks.
> 
> “We’ll look after your kids, Cap.”
> 
> “You can leave their training to us. Byleth’s already coming along with her swords play and her brother’s already downright deadly with those daggers.”
> 
> “Don’t worry - we won’t let them do anything too dangerous.”
> 
> Now, explain to me how leaving a couple of eleven year olds in the woods and ordering them to survive wasn’t dangerous.
> 
> I was gone for TWO WEEKS.
> 
> And what do I find? The twins. MY twins. Half starved, scratched to hell and back. One of them’s broken her goddess damned arm. Her brother’s no better, haunted and paler than he’s ever been. He’s refused to leave Byleth’s side for weeks now, wrapped around her unbroken arm tighter than her cast.
> 
> “We were keeping an eye on them.”
> 
> Keeping an eye clearly means something else. I’m surprised we’re not all dead if this is how they keep watch.
> 
> “They went hunting one day. We didn’t expect it. The boy refused to hunt at first. So we thought they’d just forage for the week. But they took off hunting one night and I guess they fell in a ravine. But, she didn’t cry at all, Captain!”
> 
> And when the fuck has she ever? I guess if being shoved into the wilderness didn’t make them cry nothing will.
> 
> I’ve never wanted to put someone through the floor more.
> 
> And then one of them had the audacity to look me in the eye and tell me, “If they’re going to be mercenary they have to learn. You’re compromised, Captain. The pace of your training would mean they’re field ready when they’re thirty. Congratulate your kids Captain. They survived.”
> 
> I’m not proud of this but I nearly killed one of my own men.
> 
> If Byleth hadn’t stopped me I think I would have.
> 
> “I agree” she’d said and I swear to the goddess she knew what I was thinking. She’d wriggled the fingers on her broken hand like it was nothing and then told me, “Don’t be mad. We wanted to learn.”
> 
> I hate that. I hate that they wanted to. I hate that I gave them their blades a year ago. I hate that I ever entertained Byleth’s first wishes.
> 
> Most of all, I hate that the others are right. I hate that Byleth knows it too.
> 
> She told me they killed something, waited until after her brother fell asleep in her lap to tell me. A rabbit each. She said Bylead refused for the first two days, more willing to starve. She said she did it when he was asleep one night because otherwise they both would have starved. Said he took the second after he found out.
> 
> “He didn’t like it, but he did it,” she’d told me and then looked at me with that ancient stare of hers, “It was good that it happened in the forest.”
> 
> ‘Instead of the field’ had been left unspoken.
> 
> Too smart for her own good and I can’t stand it.
> 
> I hate that she took that responsibility. I hate that it won’t be the last time she did. I hate that she’s already letting herself grow accustomed to the idea of taking a life. I hate that I also know her brother’s hesitation is something to be trained out. I hate that I know exactly how to do so.
> 
> If it’d been the field, they both would have die. And they both know it. So he’ll unlearn his hesitation for his sister. And she’ll run ahead to spare him. I hate that a part of me thinks this is for the best. The faster they learn, the faster they can defend themselves. The closer they are the more difficult it will be to break them both. The stronger they become, the more likely they can walk their own paths. Can claw out their own futures if the Church comes knocking.
> 
> But they’re my kids. They’re **our children.**
> 
> _Mead stains blur out the rest of the words, the pages of the journal sticking together._

* * *

“You’re looking well,” Bylead greets when Byleth comes to see them off the morning of the mission.

The sun’s barely crested the sky but from the look on her face he can tell she hasn’t slept. A few stray locks and a still fading mark on her cheek belay her weariness. Concerned for him. His chest goes warm with affection and Bylead resists the urge to ruffle her hair. He would need full use of his arms during the mission after all.

Byleth doesn’t roll her eyes but Bylead can certainly feel her urge to, “And you are picking up noble habits.”

She shoves a training sword in his hands. Her sword. Bylead could not recall the last time he’d seen empty space at his sister’s hip.

“And you’re picking up fretting?” Bylead asks.

Byleth’s eyes flit behind him in lieu of a reply.

Dimitri had recovered remarkably well from the training session in the woods. As well as any charlatan affecting normality as the way he did. Grief to one side of him. Acceptance on the other. He’d been in class the next day with his usual smile and a carefully worded apology - a touch too formal to be comfortable - and said nothing else. His eyes shuttered and posture tense as a statue.

So Bylead had said nothing, only shrugged his shoulders as lightly as he had in the woods and waved the prince off.

Perhaps not one of Bylead’s better choices but it was not in him to pry. Particularly not at people like Dimitri. Bylead had seen mercenary carrying the same explosive anger and grief. Some of them suppressing it. Others held together by it. Had bore witness to an unfortunate few who erupted and took down all those around him. He hoped Dimitri wouldn’t be the latter.

“He didn’t hurt me,” Bylead’s mouth barely moves with the words, speaking under his breath so none of the Blue Lions can hear. Unlikely given the cheerful way they were speaking to each other, children excited to be embarking on an adventure. They’d not yet come to terms with what they were being sent to do.

“And it was good to know these things before I have to really lead them. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen in battle,” perhaps a little unfair to throw her words back at her.

Byleth doesn’t say anything, her glower scorching as she stares him down. No matter how tall he grew, Bylead would never feel larger than his sister. Sothis snorts at his side, something maternal and fond warming him from her end of their connection.

“I won’t bother lecturing you,” Byleth says, “So long as you don’t die for them.”

“That would be a net loss. If someone killed me would the brats even make it back alive?” Bylead says, mimicking father.

It doesn’t make Byleth smile but her expression relaxes so he counts that was a win.

“Professor Byleth? Ah, came to see us off?” Dimitri asks He glances between them, eyes lingering on the sword Byleth had offered and smiles. It’s surprisingly genuine and full of warmth, “A token of luck?”

“A substitute,” Byleth corrects.

“I’m sure it will be a poor substitute for you on the battlefield,” Dimitri chuckles, “Rest assured. All will be well. We will have the knights on our side. I heard Jeralt has also rejoined the Knights of Seiros. Perhaps someday we will have the good fortune of seeing all three of you fighting side by side.”

“This isn’t a game,” Bylead reminds him softly and at once Dimitri bows his head.

“Yes… I - forgive me, I allowed my childish whims to get the best of me,” Dimitri apologizes, “In all honesty, I’m a bit jealous. You’re very close. My family is … no longer around.”

His eyes go distant, looking away from them all. At spectres.

“Done with this?” Felix cuts in then. He dips his head in a nod to Byleth and then glares at Dimitri who shakes out of his reverie.

“Yes, sorry to bore you with such things,” Dimitri says, bowing low, “I’d say it’s nearly time for us to depart. Eh, Professor?”

Byleth pats Bylead once on the back and wiggles her fingers at them as they go. He misses her sorely already.

* * *

“I was hoping for more of a challenge,” Felix says as he fells a bandit, whipping his sword to flick off the blood. Perhaps the joint lessons weren’t the best ideas if he was to be picking up Byleth’s bad habits.

“Take Sylvain and Annette. Go around them,” Bylead says, grabbing Felix’s shoulder, both to shake him from his bloodlust and to get his attention.

Bylead had been concerned about them flinching away from kills but Felix’s flinty amber eyes and casual disregard - feigned or otherwise - are not much better.

“Hmph,” Felix shrugs off Bylead’s touch as if it burned, turning quickly away from him to follow the order. It was remarkably hard to get Felix to meet his eyes for too long.

“Ashe, Mercedes, you can both stay up here and cover us,” Bylead says, “Dimitri, Ingrid, Dedue - let’s push forward.”

The fight requires some adjusting on Bylead’s part. He initially intends to fit himself behind his three students, providing support. But it quickly proved to be more difficult than providing support for Byleth; he has to account for their reactions and aim wider to ensure he avoided them utterly. He could not trust them to not flinch in certain directions, has to put conscious thought into lining up a path instead of just letting his blade fly and knowing Byleth will move where he wants her. As a result clean kills were more difficult, and he has to set himself on the front lines so as to physically block a reactionary attack from his student.

Byleth would have run ahead already, carved out a neat path for him to clean up around her.

_“Focus,”_ Sothis says.

“Professor, get down!”

And he does. Dimitri’s lance whip into the air where his head had been, embedding itself deep into a surprise attacker’s lungs. He really had been clumsy. That wouldn't do.

With a silent hiss, Bylead meets another bandit’s sword with his daggers, tilting his blade to let the sword slip off and then swiping up across the bandit’s eyes, feeling flesh tear and give way like cloth. He steps into his sister’s usual place, taking point, running ahead. It meant he had to expand his mental map to encapsulate the entire area, front and back, like he was perusing a chess board.

Behind him, three bandits. Dimitri and Dedue could manage, two injured by Bylead already. Another one firing at Ingrid but she could probably dodge. He could see Annette, Felix, and Sylvain making their way around, fending off a cluster there with Annette’s support magic blinding their foes. It left Bylead free to take the leader.

“Wait - aren’t you?” the bandit leader was a familiar face, “The Ashen –“

“No,” Bylead corrects. The Ashen Demon would have been more furious. Would never have allowed time for even those few words.

Bylead could still recall clearly how the man's blade had cut his throat, could feel a phantom pain that didn’t truly exist. Not that the Ashen Demon would have remembered after Bylead had twisted back time but she would not have liked the return of a former enemy. Particularly not one she had previously spared.

Bylead grunts as he manages a clumsy block of an axe. To have been so distracted. He was entirely still too unaccustomed to taking point.

Yet again, the leader’s axe is too close to his throat, curving ever closer. Bylead’s block is sloppy, too weak to hold and too imprecise to twist into an advantage. So familiar of the night weeks ago it could be a joke and he hears Sothis shout at him for being a stupid foolish human.

As if in reminder, Byleth’s sword knocks against his hip as Bylead is pushed downwards. Always by his side even if she were not. Half possessed by her presence, Bylead twists himself sideways, allowing the man’s axe to bite empty air instead of his throat. He grabs for Byleth’s sword, the familiar hum of metal as it exited the scabbard an old comfort, and twists back up as he’s seen her done so many times before. Rising solely on momentum to serve as his strength, he swings the blade with his entire body, severing the man’s head clean from his neck. There’s not enough time for a scream, blood pooling already under Bylead’s boots as the body drops lifeless to the side. The head falls with a dull thud and rolls aside.

Bylead hates larger blades. Hates the simple brutality of them. He tries not to grimace as he sheathes Byleth’s sword, turning away from the body to return to his students. It was an odd vantage. To be the one returning to someone else instead of the one waiting.

“Hmph, so you can use a blade,” Felix says and his frown is a little less pronounced this time.

Ashe and Mercedes are running up to Ingrid, both of them hurrying to assist with her sprained wrist.

“Don’t be so careless next time,” Bylead says as he passes them, “You can’t just throw yourself aside if you mean to dodge. There could be other enemies there, there could be an ally there you’ve just blocked. You have to make sure you account for all variables. Next time we go against the Golden Deer, we’ll put you against a few more archers and see if we can borrow a pegasi. It would give you more maneuverability.”

“I’m certain Claude would be ecstatic,” Ingrid smiles wryly. Bylead doesn’t miss the way the corners of her mouth wobble a little as she takes in their surroundings.

“Ashe, aim before you let off shots. If you’re so concerned with reacting quickly, we’ll pair you with Claude next time for close counters.”

“Y-yes,” Ashe whispers the reply, shoulders hunched as he bites at his lip.

Their injuries were all minimal. Bylead had kept a good check of the field as he’d fought through. Besides a sprained wrist and a few cuts and bruises the children were much the same as they were that morning. Save for their demeanor. Sullen in spite of their victory.

Bylead glances to Dimitri, thinks he sees something crack for a moment, something long simmering rising fast to the surface before Dimitri smothers it ruthlessly.

“I know they were just thieves,” Dimitri says, under his breath and more to himself, “But this never gets easier for me…”

Besides him, Dedue presses a little closer, silently offering comfort.

_“This was your concern, was it not?”_ Sothis sighs besides him and an old sorrow fills his chest, _“This place … to think it was such a peaceful place… oh, but I do not remember that do I?”_

Bylead catches a glimpse of something, both peace and war. Emotion too deep for words stirs restlessly in his chest, demanding to be felt. First joy, bright and brilliant, and then a deep score of grief, the pang like jagged glass. Loss and mourning overlaid with irrepressible delight.

_“They were all children too…”_ Sothis says and then she says no more. Even when Bylead presses her. He feels her presence shift, go soft and feather light, as if she’s gone away for a nap, leaving him alone to carry his students.

* * *

The ride back is … uncomfortable. There’s not a trace of the careless excitement. Instead, death hangs in the air above them all. At the front of the students, Dimitri and Dedue both hold themselves tall, as if they can bear the weight of everyone.

Ingrid and Annette attempt conversation every now and again but there are stark gaps in the middle as their minds turn to other things. Sylvain’s laughter is a little too forced in those moments. Despite the casual way he’s trying to hold himself, it’s clear he is troubled. Only Felix marches ahead in silence, blind, deaf, and mute to everything around him.

A startling difference to Bylead’s first battle. The mercenary had been riotously happy, tugged Byleth between them and praised her abilities. Bylead recalls being shoved, his hair ruffled far too many times for his liking as he’d been congratulated. All except father, who’d ridden ahead, staring into the distance as if there were yet more enemies.

“Professor…” Ashe had been hovering in the back of the group, far away from the Knights of Seiros at the very front of the party. His voice scarcely lifts over the sound of hooves and footsteps and breaks on the tail end of the word. Bylead slows his horse. Ashe’s knuckles whiten over his reins as he looks up at Byleth, “How do you do it?”

How did you live as a mercenary? How many did you kill? How do you live day to day where such a thing is so commonplace? The questions hang in the air, growing heavier like overly ripe fruit.

“I try not to think on it,” Bylead says and then when Ashe flinches, “I don’t like killing, Ashe … but I do it anyways and I don’t think too hard on it because I, too, don’t have the answers you seek.”

Ashe looks at him mournfully, starts to turn his horse away, hunching further in his saddle. He looks so small, overburdened and troubled. And well … it sits wrongly in Bylead for the conversation to end there.

“Mercenary kill to circumvent their own deaths. Knights kill for their beliefs. Bandits for their lives. Others … for themselves,” Bylead considers for a moment, piecing the words together from scattered thoughts. It was not in him to give speeches, “Father would say you can't find nobility here and that you shouldn’t try.”

“I can’t believe that,” Ashe whispers, harsh and raw, “I’m … I’m going to become a knight.”

“Does that mean you don’t falter over another’s death?” Bylead asks, recalling the way father had looked when Jeralt had pulled him aside after the instance in the woods. He’d looked terribly sad. Had stumbled over his words and hesitated for the first time Bylead had known him, “Faher’s a knight … but the first time I killed something, he took me aside and said –“

_‘A fight is a fight. War is war. There’s no room for ideals. Sure, that might have gotten you there but when it comes down to it, all it is is violence and two people on opposite sides,’ Jeralt picks through the words, his form enormous and towering over Bylead, ‘And it doesn’t just end there. You fight, maybe you win but it also might just work out that you don’t. The dead have ties, no person is an island. You kill one and you run from another. They kill you and someone you love spring to take your place. And round and round you go. It’s best to just not.’_

_Jeralt hands him a dagger._

_Bylead doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look in father’s eyes that day. So ancient and haunted. So weary, as if someone had stolen his youth in his sleep._

_‘But you too, have people you want to spare from that runaround. People you refuse to yield on. People you’ll take the weight on for,’ Jeralt says, his words slow and deliberate. Even if he hadn’t, Bylead would have understood. Jeralt kneels down, hand heavy on Bylead’s shoulder, ‘So make your choice kid,’_

“And I did,” Bylead says quietly, “Byleth doesn’t admit it - says, dead is dead, gone is gone - but, she falters sometimes. Rarely. But it happens. So, even if I don’t enjoy it - if I have to weigh someone else against Byleth or father, then I won’t hesitate.”

“But you also cannot forget the reverse is true for your opponent,” Ashe guesses, his green eyes bright.

“No,” Bylead admits, “ I suppose in most cases … if I can spare someone, I try. And if I can’t … I try not to think about it. I don’t often succeed. But, I don’t mind that so much.”

“Naive,” Felix says, without turning around. His back is tense and Bylead blinks, realizing the rest of the Blue Lions are listening in.

“So says Byleth. Says it slows me down but I think it should.”

Felix turns to him, meeting his eyes for the first time since the mock battle, a lord’s gaze full of judgement. As if weighing his worth.

“It shouldn’t be entirely effortless to take a life,” Bylead shrugs, “No matter how strong you become. There are people shrug off the weight of a life like water. Others drag around gravestones until it crushes them. I have no interest in being either.”

“So you’ll totter somewhere in the middle because of your indecision?” Felix asks.

“No, I’ll walk in the middle because that _is_ my decision,” Bylead says stubbornly. He never had to explain this to Byleth. Not with so many words and it was starting to wear on him.

And when only silence greets him.

“Well, I don’t have all the answers,” Bylead says, awkwardly, nudging his horse ahead, “How you decide to carry your weight is up to you. So long as you remember you, too, have others to share it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Church shenanigans and more Claude next time around I promise  
; w ;


	7. White Clouds: Movement in the Monastery

“Show me you can survive, kid,” one of their father’s mercenaries tells her. He puts his weight on the blade of her sword, pushing with a firm hand until she buckles. Stubbornly, Byleth shoves back. When she looks at him again his easy smile is gone and his eyes are heavy as flint, “Ain’t no going back after this, kid. This weight? Ain’t going away.”

She’d only nodded and tightened her hand over her sword, “'m not a kid. I can do it.”

_For Bylead,_ she doesn't add.

The merc seems to understand anyway.

She reaches back to grab Bylead but this time he’s not there. Instead there’s a rabbit under her left palm. She bears down on it the way the mercenary had on her sword, holding it still.

The creature feels as if it’s carved from glass. She can feel the bone of its back and shoulders. It’s much like the delicate bones of her brother’s hand. Finely carved. Porcelain made. Muscles twitch and she feels each bend and stretch. She presses a little harder and feels the steady beat of a heart. Of a life.

She remembers Bylead refusing. Even for if meant a loss meal. Remembers the sounds of his stomach as he'd curled up on himself, stubbornly intent on sleeping.

Byleth squeezes a little tighter. The rabbit makes a cry. 

Something in her blood roars, a second heartbeat pounding her ears. Urging her forward.

She hesitates and the drumming grows louder. More urgent.

_Do it._

A female hand settles over her right one, guides her sword under the rabbit’s chin. Byleth can feel its fear through the blade. Can feel it shudder and shake, brown eyes pleading as it looks at her.

_You must.  
_

A command. Meant to be obeyed. The incorporeal voice grows louder. More demanding. Enough to reverberate in her skin. In her head.

She had to. For Bylead she could. For family, she could do all this and more. 

Bylead's stomach rumbles and a cold resolution coalesces in Byleth's chest, hardening like a stone.

She slices through the rabbit’s throat. Blood drips through her fingers, thick and warm and so very very heavy. It pools at her feet and when she looks back up again she’s standing at the foot of a throne.

The forest greenery is gone. The floors tiled and the green is unnatural.

The throne beckons. 

“Sothis?” she tries, recalling the name of her brother’s friend.

Again, no response. Her voice bounces off the walls as if in mockery.

A wind rattles at her as if she were made of nothing but bone. Seeps under her clothes and beneath her skin until the chill is part of her. She calls again and this time the room pulses like a heartbeat, knocking her to her feet. She grasps at the throne, thinking to catch her balance but it shrinks away beneath her hand. All around her the room closes in, the dark walls falling at her head with the speed and might of a boulder.

* * *

Byleth sits up.

It’s been a while since Remire but the dream is no less cold the second time around. She has no idea how Bylead can tolerate the chill of that room.

She blinks until the dream slips away from her and her surroundings swim into view. Green and black bleeding away into dark wood and pale cloth.

Window. Desk. Textbooks. Lesson plans. Sword – no, that was with Bylead.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and looks again.

Dagger. Boots. Cloak.

Father. In the Empire.

The mercenary band. With him.

Bylead. Here – no, Bylead was in the Oghma Mountains. Away from the protection of her blade. Moving on his own without her at his back.

A little pitter of anxiety in the pit of her stomach and she swallows it away ruthlessly. Smothers it like an ember beneath her boot until it extinguishes.

_“Adapt,”_ Jeralt’s voice is stern even in her memory.

Right. Bylead had his students.

She had hers.

Gritting her teeth against the chill that’d followed her out of the dream, Byleth stands up.

She tucks the dagger Bylead had left behind against her upper arm and goes outside.

* * *

“Did you come to see me?”

“Came to ask if I’m getting a mission this month,” Byleth says, “I heard the Black Eagles are leaving for their own soon enough. Lysithea had some thoughts about that.”

Byleth cocks her head, the most she’ll allow her irritation to shine through, “Do you not trust me to lead them in a battle?”

“This is, by no means, a reflection on your skill,” Rhea says. Her brows furrow a little, something like disappointment in her face before she smoothes it out to the serene smile of an Archbishop heading her flock, “One should learn gratitude for peace.”

“You sent my brother,” Byleth says, crossing her arms, “And my father. There’s no such thing as peace if my family isn’t here with me.”

“No, I suppose not,” Rhea says, pausing a moment before her expression softens. As if she understands.

Byleth very much does not like to be understood by her. She especially does not like the way Rhea reaches out to grasp her shoulders, full of warmth, as if they were old friends.

“I know, child –“

Byleth _really_ dislikes being called that.

“I cannot imagine you three were ever so far apart. It must make you restless to know nothing of their safety.”

Everything from Rhea’s mouth borders on a threat and it makes Byleth restless. Makes her vibrate out of her skin, something within her railing and crying out to react. To flee or fight.

Byleth clamps down on the urge, meeting Rhea’s eyes, making sure to keep her expression neutral.

“My house also doesn’t handle boredom well,” Byleth says, “I’m certain Claude’s ready to dig up the monastery floors himself just to see what lies under there.”

Last she’d seen he was pestering Tomas about the mysteries of the church. And not subtly. 

“The young Lord is known for being capricious,” Rhea says, still wearing that smile. If she has any thoughts about Claude’s actions, she does not show it. She shakes her head, looking a touch melancholy - suddenly too emotive to be genuine, “I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you. Perhaps there are some requests from the students on the boards. Something around the monastery to see to.”

Rhea’s squeezes Byleth’s shoulders a little, her eyes searching as if she can find something in Byleth’s face, “I know you are accustomed to travelling but please, I hope you will make the monastery your home. It is okay to breath a little, dear one. You are safe here.”

_Then why did my father run?_ Byleth wants to snarl.

“Thanks,” she says instead, stepping smoothly out of Rhea’s hold to bow, “I’m grateful for your hospitality and care. But, if there’s nothing else I can assist with … I’ll leave you here.”

Byleth turns, ready to leave when Rhea stills her.

“One more word of advice, Professor. Not just the house leader but you too, should learn not to stray too far. As professor, you must lead by example,” Rhea says, “I do not mind if you use our training grounds. Or even the lands nearby. But the Church cannot offer its protection if you stray far beyond its walls. There are a number of threats in the shadows. The students would be quite upset if they lost their favorite professor.”

Byleth says nothing, only placidly looking back at Rhea, forcing her hands not to clench.

“Think of it as a mother’s advice,” Rhea says and then chuckles a little as if she were telling a joke.

“Thanks for your concern, excuse me,” Byleth feels Rhea’s eyes follow her out from the audience chamber.

* * *

“Such a stormy countenance,” Edelgard smiles as a greeting, her hand poised over a piece over paper on the bulletin board. By her side, stands Hubert. Arms back. Posture rigid. Expression blank. He bores daggers into Byleth’s skin. A steadfast sentinel.

Edelgard glances at the closed doors of the audience chambers and then shakes her head, something knowing in her eyes, “I had meant that as a jest. Your expression did not change. But perhaps I was not so far off?”

“Just worried about my brother,” Byleth lies as easily as breathing, leaning in over Edgelard’s shoulder to glance at the paper, “A training session with the Kingdom army? Plotting a seige?”

She doesn’t miss the tension in Hubert’s spine. His fingers twitch behind his back. No doubt itching to fire off a spell. Not the friendly sort and definitely not friendly enough to forgive someone from intruding on his ward’s personal space.

Byleth doesn’t move. Her blood was up and she was feeling a little vindictive after the talk with Rhea.

“I thought it would be best for my class to have some field experience. Not all our professors are so eager to leave the confines of the monastery,” Edelgard says, angling her face to peer pointedly up at Byleth as she folds the paper neatly, tucking it in her breast pocket, “And our mission will send us in the same direction. I thought to take advantage of this opportunity.”

“You’re more than welcome to join the Golden Deer any time you want,” Byleth says, glancing up at the board. Most of them are training requests or posters for lost items. Nothing at all like the boards that hung in bar houses and inns.

“I’m interested in seeing Petra’s fighting style again. Yours too,” Byleth says absently.

Hubert makes a noise of derision, looks her dead in the eye when she looks over as if daring her to speak further.

Edelgard coughs in her fist, frowning a little, “Praise isn’t necessary, really. And not following so closely on the heels of another’s compliments. I also hope you did not only offer because the Blue Lions are on their mission. I have no intention of being mere replacements.”

_"Cheeky brat,"_ Jeralt would have call her.

Byleth feels her irritation crack, something lighthearted swimming in to take its place, and she drops her attention away from the board. Edelgard stares back at her fearlessly, her eyes stern enough to be considered cold, softened by the bright confident smile on her lips. A princess wearing an Emperor’s imperiality.

Unthinking, Byleth bends down, practically purring in her ear, “Well, you’ll just have to impress me then, princess.”

Edelgard’s eyes widen, pink rising fast to her cheeks. She hadn’t been expecting that, Byleth realizes with no small amount of amusement. It was surprisingly easy to catch her Imperial Highness off guard.

“Professor By–“ Hubert’s voice drops to a dangerous low, encroaching on a snarl.

“Wow, Teach, an open scandal right outside the Archbishop’s rooms? I would’ve thought you’d keep your secrets better guarded.”

“We are doing nothing so scandalous to warrant such talk!” Edelgard says hotly, jumping away, nearly banging her head against the bulletin board were it not for Hubert standing in her way. As it is, she bumps only him. Not nearly hard enough to displace the glower he’s sending Byleth.

Claude grins at them all over an armful of books. Mostly history and religion focused. The War of Heroes. Seiros and the Goddess. He really was one-minded. Perhaps next week’s lesson should be in subtlety.

Claude props his chin over the stack, exuding amusement and mischief, but his eyes are calculating as he looks over them, “Aw, c’mon your secret’s safe with me, princess. Bodes well for me to have something over her great Imperial Highness.”

“The Professor and I were discussing joint lessons with the Golden Deer,” Edelgard snaps. She makes a show of looking him over, her examination scorching in its distaste, “I, for one, am looking forward to seeing how you fare against my axe.”

“Sure, sure,” Claude winks, “I hear you. Some ‘lessons’ with Teach could help us all out.”

“Enough. I grow weary of your antics. I have more important matters to attend to,” Edelgard turns away, bowing to Byleth, “I will discuss with Professor Manuela the possibility of joining our classes. At least for a few times each month. Thank you.”

She fixes Claude with a downright vicious look that he lets roll off as if it were nothing more than a gentle breeze. As if he is well accustomed to such gazes. Hubert follows closely on her heels, not before eying Byleth one last time in a slow steady appraisal that speaks of a desire to slip something poisonous in her food.

“Y’know, Teach, there are better ways to woo students to our class. Also, the house leaders aren’t allowed to swap classes. It’d probably be pretty bad for morale that way,” Claude says, shifting his weight. Were it not for the books, she’s certain he would have thrown his arms over his head again in his signature pose.

“Heading for the library?” Byleth asks, already accustomed to ignoring most of what came out of his mouth. She reaches out to relieve some of his burden and he willingly shoves more than half of his stack in her arms, still smiling as he led the way.

“Also, I thought I was your favorite, Teach,” he huffs, full of faux melancholy, “You can’t tug a guy’s braid, then turn around and flirt with another princess.” 

“What was I thinking,” Byleth says blandly, “You are the prettiest princess in all the land.”

Claude snickers, eyes shining as he looks at her, “I’m afraid it’s too late, Teach. I’m heartbroken, never to recover from this betrayal.”

“And this is where I beg your forgiveness as I pledge life and allegiance to you?”

“Nah, no need for all that. Just your sword would be enough,” Claude peeks at her hip dramatically, “But, alas, I can see you’ve given that away as well.”

Byleth, resisting the urge to shove at him as he butts their shoulders together, “Harlot that I am.”

That gets him to snort, a fleeting startled noise. Shocked delight flicks over his features, a there and gone flutter.

“Besides, I’ve won you the Black Eagles haven’t I? Here I thought you would be pleased with starting joint lessons. Aren’t you always prying for more information from the other houses?”

“Aw, so you do it all for me, Teach?” Claude bats his lashes at her as they enter the library, “Well… I suppose, I can forgive you in that case. I’ve definitely prettier than Edelgard after all.”

He tosses his head for good measure, braid flipping in the air, the clasp catching sunlight behind them. 

“How magnanimous.”

“And so humble,” a third voice cuts in.

“Whoa! Linhardt, jeez, you really know how to sneak up on a guy for someone half asleep all the time.”

“How absurd,” Linhardt rolls his eyes, propping himself up on the desk and wiping at his mouth. He has a book open in front of him. The page corner is a little damp. No doubt he’d fallen asleep on it, “I was always here. You just so happened to intrude. And quite loudly. I would think Professor Byleth would know to keep their trysts with the students quiet.”

Byleth fixes Claude with a look as she sets his books down on the table besides Linhardt, who immediately starts prying at them. He flips through the first few quickly, expression unchanging before something towards the bottom catches his attention.

“Okay, okay, that was kind of my fault,” Claude says, seemingly unbothered, “Although, the library would be perfect for that. It’s quiet. Secretive. Tons of dark corners. No one’s ever here except –“

“I would prefer you not do such a thing in here.”

“Gah! Tomas,” Claude clutches at his heart dramatically, “Jeez, between you and Linhardt –“

“As I said, I was always here,” Lindhardt intones as he tugs for the last book. The stack wobbles precariously and Byleth has to raise a hand to keep it from toppling over.

“You’re going to stop my poor little heart – hey, I was reading that.”

“Well, no, I believe you were having a conversation with Tomas,” Linhardt says flippantly, turning the pages.

Nemesis and his curse.

Byleth doesn’t catch many words as Linhardt flips through but he stills on a picture in the middle, divided in two pages by the binding. On the left, a man wielding a sword like a torch, holding it up high into the sunlight for the masses to gaze upon like a self-appointed god. On the right his arm has blackened and he is shrinking away, face twisted in a cartoonish horror. A human rejected. Burnt and battered for daring to fly so close. The Crest of Flames is written beneath and something about cursed relics.

_“I dreamt of a fallen king. Of his death and the war around him,” Bylead had said on the morning they’d turned ten, shivering despite the sheets Byleth had wrapped around him, “They called him Nemesis.”_

Byleth clenches her fist. Barely resisting snatching it from Linhardt’s hand.

“Oh, where did you dig this one up, young Lord?” Tomas sighs, long suffering as he takes the book, closing it, “Certainly not from my library and it certainly will not have a home here. The last thing I need is Seteth questioning me again.”

He says the last piece pointedly, fixing Claude with a stern look.

“Why?” Byleth asks, extending her hand. Making sure not to seem too eager. Making sure not to shake. There was something here. She could feel the truth of that thought instinctively, felt it rumble across her skin. To her surprise Tomas passes the tome to her without any more prompt, “What’s the Crest of Flames? Who’s Nemesis?”

Linhardt’s turns to her so fast she thinks he’s sprained himself, “Honestly, Professor Byleth, how on earth did come upon a teaching career here? Nemesis is an ancient king, thought to have been blessed by the Goddess.”

“When ancient gods walked this world, the Goddess gifted Nemesis with the Sword of the Creator and the Crest of Flames. With his blade and the power of his Crest, he cut down those gods,” Tomas says, his expression creasing into something forlorn, “But alas, the Goddess’ power was not meant for mortal men. It corrupted him and he was slain by the Saint Seiros.”

“So the Crest turned against him or the sword?”

“The legends aren’t so detailed as to tell us,” Tomas replies. He offers Byleth a little rueful smile. She can still feel his eyes on her as she looks down.

Linhardt props his head against her forearm, reading over her as she turns the pages. On her left, Claude leans in as well, going so far as to prop his head against her shoulder.

_Through Nemesis all the relics are cursed. Misfortune follows us foolhardy few who dare intrude upon the Goddess’ domain. The Lance of Ruin, Thunderbrand, all of them. They scream out for a different master, unwilling to be held by mortal hands. They shudder and move like infants in their cribs, flailing their limbs, crying for their mother. For the Goddess herself and those who stand in the way –_

They died screaming.

The thought hits so suddenly, Byleth barely suppresses her jolt. Her chest gave a pang. As if someone had reached inside and squeezed it hard in a poor approximation of a heartbeat.

“Can you read faster?” Linhardt asks, “I am done with this page already.”

Byleth doesn’t notice Seteth until he slams the book shut in her hands, pulling it smoothly out of her grip. Unacceptable that she should be caught so off guard.

“I believe new books are to be categorized and properly registered before entering the library,” Seteth says. He gives Tomas a scathing look, “I believe this is the fifth time I’ve had to remind you this month, Tomas. We are to maintain a standard befitting of the Church.”

“It’s just about the King of Liberation,” Claude says, affecting a whine, “We were curious about the old legends. Especially since Teach here barely knows what a Crest even is.”

Seteth’s eye twitches as he looks at Byleth. There’s a lifetime’s worth of criticism there, “Then even more of a reason to start elsewhere. There are plenty false tales and poorly written accounts pretending to be those who lived during his reign.”

He glares them all down just as Claude gears up for a rebuttal, “Personally, I would recommend starting with one of the many textbooks on the third bookshelf from the back if you’re looking for something regarding the history of Crests. Second shelf from the bottom if you so wish to delve into the legend of the King of Liberation. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe Tomas and I are late for a meeting regarding the library’s budgets for the next month and the new books we are still missing that are far more important than silly fairytales such as these.”

Tomas flashes Claude an accusatory look before sighing, “Of course, Seteth, lead the way will you? These old bones take some time to get turned around.”

“Hmph,” Linhardt huffs when the two disappear far enough down the hall they can barely hear the footsteps, “There is always truth where you least expect it. Even fairy tales and silly fables have something to tell. How unbearably rigid if you believe you can gain everything from those textbooks.”

“Yeah, well, good luck convincing Seteth,” Claude says on a sigh.

Byleth barely hears them as she stares at the doorway.

There were two pairs of footsteps following Seteth and Tomas out. Sateth’s own were a distinct rhythm, heavy and clipped, as if he were raised as nobility, trained to walk rigidly tall and proud. Yet, there hadn’t been a single whisper of anything when Seteth had torn the book from her hands. He’d slipped around them all soundlessly. Even if Byleth had been distracted she should have seen him from her periphery. Or at least, someone should have. But they hadn’t.

Not only that. He’d clearly picked the title before he had slipped around, having known it to be nothing but a simple fairy tale. Yet, there was no chance of him ever seeing it with hers, Linhardt’s, and Claude’s backs effectively blocking any view from the doorway.

Movements not meant for a holy man who lived in opulence, held out in the open to be gazed upon. No, he’d moved more like a thief in the night. A person accustomed to hiding in the shadows and slipping away unseen.

“Hey, Teach,” Claude interrupts her thoughts, his voice a little too loud, a little too casual, “Wanna go steal that book?”

There was both daring and curiosity in his eyes, bright burning like a flame and green as the room she’d dreamt of that morning. So vibrant she could nearly drown in the color. He held the challenge keen as a blade on her throat, pressing her to yield. A young king’s command, rich with self-assurance.

“I’m in,” Linhardt answers for her and then rolls his eyes when they both look at him, “My class is being sent to guard some Kingdom merchants. I have little interest in battle and patrolling noble houses. This, however ...”

“No,” Byleth says.

Claude’s face does not change, doesn’t even flicker at her refusal, only peers at her as if confident he can still sway her.

“As your Professor, I don’t condone this,” Byleth says, crossing her arms as she leans back against the desk, “Linhardt - we’re welcome to sit in on the class. I’m sure Lysithea would be more than eager to take your place. But I have no intention of assisting your schemes.”

“Oh wonderful,” Linhardt yawns, patting her shoulder as he goes to leave, “I’ll leave it to you to speak with Edelgard. It'd be infinitely more troublesome to explain I’d rather chase after a book than blood.”

“Hey, now Linhardt, didn’t you hear Teach?” Claude says, affecting disappointment, “It’s a lost cause. Ol’ Seteth won that one.”

“How one minded, I was only intending to spend more time on my other studies,” Linhardt lies openly, not bothering to look back as he waves them goodbye.

Claude rounds on her the moment the other boy disappears, wearing charm like an old cloak, well worn and thoroughly used. His smile dimples and his entire body opens up, shoulders loose, arms spread.

Byleth cuts him off, unwilling to allow him an advantage. A step forward takes her into the open welcome of his arms and he stills like a puppet on strings for only a second. His eyes flicker a little as she sets a hand on his shoulder, just the faintest trace of uncertainty, speedily hidden. She tips a finger against the warm pulse of his throat as she leans by his ear, “If you want to buy my allegiance, my lordling, you’ll have to offer more than a pretty smile and a cheerful wink.”

His mouth parts in a little ‘o’ of surprise, eyebrows shooting up. She tracks the way his Adam’s apple bobs and feels for herself the shiver that goes through him. But he recovers nonetheless, smiling sweetly up at her as he places his hand over hers, leaning into her space easily as if he felt no fear.

“Alright then,” he says, smooth and theatrical as any stage performer, “How about the Church’s secrets offered up on a platter?”

Byleth doesn’t smile back but her grip tightens briefly before shifting to twist the end of his braid, something predatory rumbling in her chest as she toys with the golden clasp, “Negotiations begin after proof of payment.”

He says nothing only leaning against her hand, eyes warm as he looked at her, shrewd and calculating as ever but fully content as if he’d happened upon a great puzzle to be solved.

* * *

“I’ve already informed Edelgard of your intention to speak with her,” Linhardt tells her the next morning. He’s leaning over a set of chess boards across from Claude, playing some sort of speed match across three boards, “I’ve also informed Lysithea of her new duties.”

“Good luck, Teach,” Claude says, something sly and too familiar in his tone.

_"Brought this on yourself,"_ Byleth could practically hear Jeralt say as she marches away to find Edelgard.

* * *

“Hello, Professor. You seem to be in good health.”

Yet another thing she’d brought on herself. Still, Byleth cannot help the smirk that nearly bubbles to the surface. It had been a very long time since someone’s tried to corner her.

“I am, yes,” she says mildly, “And yourself?”

“Of course,” Hubert says, at his full height as he stares her down.

He’s severe looking and aware of it. His face is pale and full of sharp edges; enhanced by the steel grey of his eyes, made even colder by the reproach in his eyes. A man easily ignored until he did not wish to be.

He would be a ruthless man and a dangerous employer in the future. The type of noble to ask no questions and provide no answers. The kind that paid generously. As if they could buy a soul with gold.

No pleasure to be taken from the job. No satisfaction. Only the simple peaceful knowledge of a job done. If done well, they would simply be two people who would never again meet. If not …

A long moment of silence stretches out between them. Hubert’s back is rigid as steel as he waits her out, refusing to falter in her presence.

“How can I help you, Hubert?” Byleth does him the favor of being the first to break.

“I am simply concerned for your well-being,” he says. His words are slow and deliberate, tracking every twitch of her body, studying her every reaction, “You see, Lady Edelgard has taken something of an interest in you.”

“I’m flattered,” Byleth replies, tilting her head towards the training ground doors, “I was just on my way to see her now.”

“Obviously,” Hubert says, looking less than amused, “There is something you need to understand about the role I play here. One of my many duties is to determine potential advantages and potential threats to Her Highness. If you prove yourself useful to Lady Edelgard, then all will be well. If you pose a threat …”

He doesn’t say any more, only looks at her, trusting her to understand.

“Thanks for the warning,” Byleth says, stretching her arms out, “But I’m a simple merc. I don’t have the means to harm Her Highness.”

“Don’t be glib.”

He evens out the temporary flare of impatient anger speedily. Another six months to a year and Byleth has no doubt there would no longer be any trace of that. He didn’t seem the sort to allow weaknesses to remain

“House Vestra has been sworn to House Hresvelg for generations. Since the dawn of the Empire, we have worked to protect the emperor by any means necessary,” he narrows his eyes at her, “In all matters.”

Byleth crosses her arms, pretending to think on it, enjoying the way his eye twitches at that. Against her upper arm, she can still feel the dagger her brother had given her after they’d received their teaching positions. Bylead, would no doubt, have long excused himself from this.

And while Byleth doesn’t like to play these noble games, it was undeniably amusing to have such a young one nipping at her heels, still feeling out his own tactics.

As if she’d come across a realization, she hums, stepping into his space until they’re nearly chest to chest. To his credit, he does not budge.

“Oh. I see,” Byleth purrs, dragging her eyes up along his body, mimicking the slow appraisal he’d shot her last time, “To be so worked up because of some harmless flirting. Guess that’s why most owners keep their little dogs outside the bed–.”

She smells magic before she sees it, something metallic and heavy crackling the air as she slips the dagger, turning the blade in her hand just as dark magic –

“Professor Byleth!”

Byleth steps back easily, replacing her dagger. She turns her back on Hubert in a clear dismissal, knowing full well she can react in case he threw a the spell, daring him to try. To her immense satisfaction the crackle of metal in the air fades.

She lifts her hand to greet Ferdinand who was fast approaching.

“Did you come to see us off?” Ferdinand asks. There is a smile on his face but it was fixed and rigid, his eyes darting behind to Hubert. Trying to piece together what had happened. More shrewd than she’d initially thought, “I heard from Edelgard earlier we are to have joint lessons starting next month. I’m looking forward to it! I hope you have not yet formed an opinion of me based on our last lesson. I will show you exactly how far I have outpaced Edelgard since then!”

Hubert snorts in derision behind Byleth and when she glances behind he is already walking into the training grounds.

“Hmph, please, disregard Hubert’s opinions,” Ferdinand crosses his arms, scowling at Hubert’s back until he leaves their hearing range and then Ferdinand turns to her, a faint crease of concern in his brows, “He can be … overzealous as Edelgard’s closest supporter. It blinds him a little. I know not what was said, but I hope you do not take any of his words quite so seriously. I also hope you do not allow his behavior to affect your opinion of the Empire.”

He bows to her as if he truly cares, brow furrowing further in worry. The juxtaposition between the two boys was startling. The Black Eagles were more full of surprises than she’d expected. Bylead might have been on to something when he’d suggested joint lessons across houses.

“No worries, it was nothing terribly important,” Byleth assures him, patting his shoulder companionably.

“Good!” Ferdinand cheers, beaming brightly at her. He offers her an arm and she takes it, amused, allowing him to lead her to the training grounds.

Lysithea and Edelgard are both already in conversation when she approaches. Hubert had propped himself in the background behind the two, meant to be easily missed. He ignores her, having already spoken his piece. In contrast, Ferdinand drops Byleth’s arm, beelining up to Hubert with such intent Byleth thinks they’re going to have an argument but Ferdinand only mutters something in a heated whisper she doesn’t catch and then marches Hubert off. She’s surprised he’d allow it.

“I apologize for this,” Edelgard says. She bows and when she comes up again, her brow is creased in frustrated understanding, “I did not think Linhardt would go this far to avoid battle. He has responsibilities … how long can he flee from them?”

“No,” Byleth waves her off, “I wanted my students to have some actual experience. Lysithea, you seemed up for the task. I’m sure you can cover for him.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve been practicing my Faith spells. This will be a good opportunity to test them,” Lysithea spins to face Byleth, bowing deep, “I’m grateful you mentioned me as a replacement. Sorry I was complaining so much before about the Golden Deer being forgotten. I’ll definitely represent us well.”

“Think of it as our first joint lesson I guess,” Byleth says and places a hand on Edelgard’s shoulders, “Thanks for this.”

“Think nothing of it, Professor. I’d be glad to take Lysithea along in the meantime. She seems a precocious girl,” the princess shakes her head, a smile pushing away the worried frown that’d previously touched her face, Ignoring Lysithea’s ‘I can hear you, y’know’, Edelgard presses on, smile going shy, “And to borrow Claude’s words. I suppose it bodes well for me to to have won a favor from you.”

Byleth snorts.

_“All you kids … damn hell cats,”_ Jeralt mutters in her memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to swing around to plot.  
Ahh, Claude is so much easier for me to write pre-skip than Dimitri. 
> 
> Also, please note the minor!Edelgard/Byleth tag -- I'm planning on fleshing out their relationship more than the game did. That last scene with her in Verdant Wind makes no sense to me otherwise ...


	8. White Clouds: Into the Dark

Neither Claude nor Linhardt are in class the next day.

Nor are they in class the next three.

Linhardt is an easily explained absence. _Everyone_ had been privy to Manuela’s complaints and woes on her teaching troubles.

Claude on the other hand, was more difficult. As House Leader, his absence was clearly marked and distinct. Drew the attention of those in and out of Byleth’s classroom. It is a struggle not to bang her head against a wall; Byleth will never understand how the nobility were raised. What was it about their childrearing that led discretion to dance so far out of their reach? Did they never sneak out their windows in the dead of night? Did they never swipe pastries off a baker’s tray while his attention was elsewhere? 

She glimpses gold and green fleeing towards the library when Seteth inevitably approaches her, armed and ready with a lecture on ensuring that all houses maintained an appropriate level of respect and decorum. All the while his eyes stare daggers into her skin. As if she were holding a blade to his throat at that very moment.

“I don’t believe I made any false promises when Rhea invited us on as teachers. I’m merely a mercenary so noble values are beyond me. And I don’t have nearly as much control as you seem to believe. I cannot command my students like an army. They’ve sworn no allegiance to me,” Byleth reminds him and has the distinct pleasure of seeing his eye twitch. She tilts her head as if thinking, catching sight of Rhea above them. Not openly staring this time but the mere sight of her elicits an unpleasant flicker of annoyance, “And I don’t believe I have as much room to move in this monastery as you seem to believe.”

Seteth follows her gaze, coming back to her after a long moment with a sigh, “I will be blunt. I do not trust you. But I also do not know what Rhea is thinking and I can understand your own cause for concern.”

His gaze is still cautious but a touch softer, “You seem tied to your family, more restless now that they are not here. That is not an emotion unfamiliar to me.”

Something like grief crosses his face, as if he is looking back on times long past. It's quickly covered.

“I understand you seek answers but permit me to make one thing clear. The Archbishop has placed great faith in you. Whatever you might find. However, you might wish to carry out your search. I can only hope you do not betray her trust.”

His gaze is cold as he finishes, all emotion neatly packed away as he implies retaliation for any potential slight in his final words, “That is all.”

Byleth keeps her eyes on him until he is well out of her line of sight. She can feel Rhea’s gaze on her yet again. In response, her own resolution flares like a flame inside her, fed by annoyance and a renewed desire for understanding. She’d never been the kind to sit around and wait for her answers.

* * *

“Is there a reason why I wasn’t selected to go instead of Lysithea?” Leonie strides straight up to the podium before class begins. She folds her arms, attempting to make full use of her height to accomplish a deadly glare. Byleth politely does not inform her that it looks more petulant than anything else.

“Yeah, Professor, that was mean,” Raphael joins in, scrambling out as best he can from behind a desk not built for a man his size, “What about me?!”

“I must agree, Professor,” Lorenz lunges on the sudden open forum with only half of his usual decorum.

“Ah - erm, I believe Lysithea’s been trying to work on her ranged spells and heals. The Black Eagles’ mission will be guarding and protecting. It’ll be a good opportunity for … her,” Ignatz trails off, nervously adjusting his glasses when they all turn to look at him.

“Well, I, for one, think it was a tragically missed opportunity to send someone from House Gloucester with the Empire’s forces,” Lorenz says, “Professor, in the future I would advise against such displays of blatant favoritism.”

“Ugh… what’s with all of you?” Hilda groans, “Can’t we just enjoy this time to ourselves? There’s already so many impressive people being sent out to represent the Church. C’mon, let’s go in town - enjoy ourselves while we’re young. Right, Marianne?”

“Huh? Oh, I suppose it would be safer off the battlefield –”

“What kind of talk is that, Marianne? We’re at the Officer’s Academy for a reason,” Leonie interrupts, ignoring Hilda’s ensuing glare, “You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t buck up a little.”

“Professor, I must insist that for next month, you –“

“C’mon, Professor! You’ve seen me bulking up. If you keep me off the field it’ll all go to waste –“

“I can’t just get stronger sitting around. Jeralt would have –“

Byleth drops a textbook on the podium. The noise rings over the lot of them, silence following on its heels. To her great relief they all recoil slightly from her stare.

“Your complaints are duly noted. Take your seats,” she says, rigid and unmoving until they all shuffle slowly back. She leans forward over her podium,“If you want to know the reason for something you’re going to have to figure it out for yourself. If you want me to send you on the next mission you’ll have to prove yourself capable.”

“Which brings me to my next topic,” she says, speaking over Leonie when the girl tries to cut in, “Our lesson this week will cover information gathering and subterfuge. You should learn that there are no easy answers and never to expect one.”

“I’m sure as members of the Leicester Alliance, you’re used to dealing with others who might not agree. At the roundtable, during merchant negotiations … You all have some experience figuring out another’s motives. Their reasons for doing what they do,” she steps out from behind the podium, making a slow circle around the room.

Lorenz frowns as he scribbles notes. She catches his glance towards Claude’s empty seat. Surprisingly, Hilda does the same, a more discrete little peep when she turns to follow Byleth’s path around the room.

“It’ll become all the more important for you, as nobles, knights … whatever it is you wish to become, to learn how to pry them open for these answers,” she leans a little on Claude’s chair, meeting Lorenz and Hilda’s eyes when they next look over, “Especially if they’re unwilling to share. As for how you do it …”

* * *

“Hmm, I guess every now and again Seteth confiscates some of the books so you can’t call it the most comprehensive library in all of Fodlan. They’re carted off in the direction of the Holy Mausoleum, but of course there’s no sign of any of them down there,” the monk says.

“I imagine that’d be grievously disrespectful,” Linhardt drawls, his nose still buried in a book.

“Indeed,” the monk says, “What exactly are you looking for, if I may ask? Perhaps I can help you find a replacement?”

“Nah,” Claude says, tilting his chair back on its back legs, “Don’t think I’ll find another one like it…”

“Very well then,” the monk bows to them both. He frowns behind them at Hilda who’s flirting openly with one of the other students.

Claude doesn’t have to look to know she’s probably leaning into some poor boy, smiling winningly, ready to coax him into some task she didn’t want to do. He tugs at Linhardt’s book instead.

“So the Holy Mausoleum, huh?”

“Indeed,” Linhardt spins his book around, “Even if we can’t find the book Seteth confiscated, there may be something else.”

He gestures to a passage.

_Those who bathed in the red river of life would rise from death with her blessings. The Goddess gave but could also take. Those who were unworthy were cast aside as with Maurice who so foolishly sought more power than was bestowed upon him. So the Goddess cursed him. Pulled the beast he so longed to be from within him and made that his skin. We are all to give gratitude for only what is granted to us and no more._

“‘And still he clung to Blutgang, unwilling to open his eyes to his greed’,” Claude reads aloud.

“Some say he’s clutched Blutgang until the day he died,” Linhardt says, steepling his fingers together, “And if he did die, I imagine Garreg Mach would be a fitting place to lay him to rest. Along with the Relic.”

“Worth looking into,” Claude agrees.

“The Professor seemed quite taken with the Hero’s Relics most of all. It’s something for her even if we don’t find the book,” Linhardt says and then almost as an afterthought, “Or perhaps she really does read that slow. In which case, I am sorry for her.”

“She was raised outside of the Church,” Claude says, “Maybe it’s just curiosity.”

Unlikely. She hadn’t seemed the religious sort and the last time the choir coordinator had asked her to join a hymn, she’s shoved it off on Ignatz in a hurry. Not hurried enough to openly reveal her discomfort but Claude had been watching his new professor closely enough to know it was an uncharacteristic move.

And not just that …

Claude had felt her stiffen as she’d read over the page on relics. Were his head not physically on her shoulder he would have missed it but her entire body had gone taut. Her eyes had gone distant and her jaw had clenched hard enough he heard her teeth click halfway through the page. It was impossible to tell which sentence. Seteth had torn the book from her hands before Claude could have ventured a guess.

And then she’d allowed them to move against Seteth. Said nothing of their missing classes. And had welcomed Claude’s offer eagerly.

It was all too obvious she was seeking something from the Church and its old legends.

Out of reaction of her abrupt teaching position or had she accepted the job because of her search? Did it involve her brother? It had to. The only people she seemed truly comfortable around - the only people to gentle the tension in her and her stern steady gaze - had been her small family.

If it did involve Bylead, would that not mean Jeralt was involved?

Unsurprising for a man who’d essentially fled the Church.

How far would the mystery go back?

And how much should Claude allow her to know? Was it safe to entrust her with whatever he found? Or would she move against the Church if it displeased her?”

How much should he allow Linhardt to know? He’d dragged the boy around for the past week and Linhardt, while typically unmotivated, had proven himself to be the unshakeable sort when it came to something that drew his interest.

“Perhaps it is,” Linhardt says, stirring Claude from his thoughts, “If your little tryst in the library is anything to go by, the Professor seems easily entertained and prone to odd interests.”

Not how he would have described her but perhaps it wasn’t entirely _wrong_. She’d responded to his flirtations and started her own with some measure of amusement. The same look - watered down a few hundred times by Teach’s general lack of emotive capabilities - Claude’s wet nurse had given him when he presented her a flower at seven as a proposal.

“Hey now, that’s practically scandalous. Also, there’s nothing odd about interest, Linhardt. I’m a catch!”

“And setting a terrible example as House Leader,” Linhardt says, looking pointedly over to where Tomas was chastising Hilda for being indiscrete. 

* * *

Garreg Mach was neutral territory, made for worship. Not at all like Fort Merceus. It should have been seamlessly simple to piece together a map of its interiors. But that was not the case. Linhardt had to be satisfied piecing together old text dating back to the monastery’s constructions, wandering around to try and work out the ghosts of walls and structures and the way they’d shifted over time. Had to delve into art books on the artistry and architecture for a small nugget of information on the layout of the area. It had taken a while but he eventually came upon a small passage by the staircase of the mausoleum, previously used as a pathway for workers and monks that led straight to their quarters. It would no doubt still be easily accessible now –

“Honestly, it saddens me how much you waste your talents, Linhardt,” Lorenz says, frowning, “The Professor may be more lenient as you are a temporary addition, but I have seen your skill with Faith and healing.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Linhardt says, rising to his feet. He tucks his book under his arm.

“Linhardt, I do not say this for my own pleasure,” Lorenz says, falling in step besides the boy.

Goddess, did Ferdinand have a twin?

“It is a noble’s duty to the people is to be prepared for anything. You have been afforded a unique opportunity and you would do yourself and the von Hevring family a great disservice if you do not make the most of your time here. I understand the Professor’s teachings may be eclectic at best –“

“That’s pretty rude to the Professor.”

“But she is quite a capable commander. I eagerly await the day the Golden Deer receive a mission of our own. But until that day, it is my duty as Lorenz Hellman Gloucester to oversee the growth of all the students within our house. And to ensure they are at their most capable. Come Linhardt, leave your books behind–“

How endlessly irritating. He had been wide awake pouring through his documents but Lorenz’s prattling was fast seeping away any and all motivation. Maybe it was time for a nap …

“Oh wonderful,” Linhardt interrupts, shoving the stack into Lorenz’s arms, “I am quite eager to see these skills of yours. But I cannot simply allow these books to lie here. I’m quite finished with these but I’m afraid I lack the stamina to make it to the library and back. If we are to start training, then I beg of you, Lord Gloucester, to assist.”

“Hm,” Lorenz hums, his fingers trailing over the covers of the stack. His eyes glance over the titles as if making sure he can allow himself to be seen holding them. Linhardt thinks they’re innocuous enough - merely books on construction and history, of a monastery slowly growing into its own, - and Lorenz seems to agree for he nods “Very well then. It is my duty to ensure you are prepared for all that may befall you on a battlefield. I will return shortly.”

“Hurry back,” Linhardt yawns, “Oh noblest of nobles.”

* * *

“Hellooo, Professor?” Hilda waves a hand in front of Byleth’s eyes.

Hilda folds her hands under her chin, pouting, “What are you doing daydreaming? I mean, I know we’re not Claude but I can’t help but be insulted if you’re going to zone out like that.”

“Hilda, please, the Professor surely has more sense than to enjoy his company,” Lorenz sniffs, taking a delicate sip of his tea. He looks at Byleth as if for support, “I, for one, am quite pleased you feel so relaxed in our company you can allow your thoughts to wander. I imagine our house leader must be quite troubling with his many antics.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” Hilda asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Just thinking over the lesson plan,” Byleth says. She’s trying not to flinch away from the clearly open setting they’ve chosen. The gazebo is far from private. She can see Seteth walking the grounds, stopping every now and again to speak with a student, “The Blue Lions are expected back any day now. I’ll be glad to have your usual training partners again.”

Lorenz sits a little straighter, hands folding in front of him, “Oh, I would be delighted to hear more on your plans, Professor. Though, I must confess, I did not expect much when you first suggested such … unusual lessons, but my own personal growth astonishes even myself! I was hoping you would lend an ear to my suggestions –“

Hilda groans, nearly throwing herself over the table, “Stop. Stop! I’m sorry I asked. Y’know, Professor, there’s no need to run around looking for more to do. We already know you work hard. It’s already impressive enough.”

“I was given a mission,” Byleth says, voice and tone neutral, “I always complete my jobs.”

“Aw, c’mon, Professor, relax a little,” Hilda pouts, “You’re not a mercenary anymore –“

Byleth tries not to bristle in reaction.

“You’re a Professor in one of the best academies in Fodlan, at the Archbishop’s request no less. Relax a little. Kick up your heels.”

“No.”

“Your dedication is admirable,” Lorenz says over Hilda’s groan, “May I suggest returning to the previous topic? I was quite taken with this week’s lessons. In fact, I have learned that –“ 

“Your dedication’s downright exhausting,” Hilda interrupts, her eyes flinty as she stares Lorenz down for a moment before she turns back to Byleth, “My poor little arms and back aren’t made for this sort of punishment. Y’know, House Goneril already has quite the capable general - there’s no need for two. I’m best as support, y’know? On the backlines? Boosting morale?”

“You are referring to Lord Holst?” Lorenz asks after a moment’s pause. His brows furrow slightly as he looks to Hilda, “Indeed, he is known for his mighty victories over the Eastern Threat. One of the foremost commanders of the Alliance. We all thought he would succeed Duke Reigan…”

“Oh yes, my father was furious when Claude showed up. If Fodlan’s Locket didn't need constant protection, he probably would have demanded my brother run up to the Reigan estate to issue a duel or something silly like that. What is there to prove? He already has the Reigan Crest.”

“A Crest is insufficient – we must also look at his noble disposition,” Lorenz says. Slowly at first and then leans into the conversation, angling a look at Byleth, “Or lack thereof. He wanders whimsically wanders the monastery grounds as he pleases wearing that impish smile on his face. I daresay he’s up to something.”

“Oh? I’ve only see him running after Professor here,” Hilda turns to face Byleth as well, expression keen, “Well, not recently since he’s taken up permaneant residence by Linhardt’s side.”

“They were running round the second floor dormitory and around the Archbishop’s chambers. Conspiring no doubt, but of what I have yet to discover,” Lorenz sighs, “I apologize in advance for my fellow students.”

“Maybe they’re looking for the Goddess. I heard Claude and Ignatz talking about what a divine beauty she is,” Hilda says, “Aren’t boys so silly, Professor?”

“What impudence. It borders on blasphemous,” Lorenz says, “The Goddess is no mortal woman he can simply bat his eyes at.”

“Don’t think she’ll give him the time of day, huh?” Hilda laughs, “Well, he’ll have to keep trying then. Maybe he’ll be like Saint Seiros, wandering down into the dark for a revelation.”

“Hmph, not too many places to go down in the monastery.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll find one. A mausoleum, a tomb, maybe he’ll dig himself into a hole,” Hilda says, “What do you think, Professor?”

They both look to Byleth, as if expecting her to speak more on the subject.

“I was thinking of wrapping up this week’s lesson,” Byleth says instead, sipping her tea, “I think you’ve learned all you needed to.”

* * *

“Professor.”

“Teach.”

“Delinquents.”

“Ouch, Teach,” Claude casts a hand over his heart, “That cuts deep. Truly.”

Byleth doesn’t give an inch and though her full height doesn’t allow her to tower over him like her brother does, he can’t help but want to flinch back.

“Would you believe I dropped something here and came to look for it?” he asks.

Nothing. Her expression is flat. Unimpressed. He still counts that as an emotion. Someday he’d get her to show more than three discernible emotions each meeting.

“We were just looking for you?” he tries.

The same unimpressed stare.

He shifts his weight, straightening back up when she does the same. If she’d had her sword still, Claude has the distinct sense she would have drawn it across their path like a blockage. For the moment her presence alone is enough

“This week’s lesson would have been helpful to you,” Byleth says, “It was on intelligence gathering and subtlety. And the many instances you went exactly wrong.”

“I’m sure looking forward to making it up,” he winks at her.

“I’m glad you’re so pleased with your failings.”

Familiar words and while they aren’t as cruelly spoken Claude feels himself bristle nonetheless. He forces his hands to unclench around his bow when he notices her gaze.

“We’re technically here on your orders,” he says, going for blasé.

Her eyebrow twitches. Would have probably risen into her hairline if she were anyone else.

“I asked you to draw Seteth’s ire and to break into the Holy Mausoleum.” she deadpans.

“Maybe not in those exact words.”

“But you seem to have chased away the guards - thank you,” Linhardt sketches out a lazy half bow before continuing onwards, unruffled. She slides an arm around his neck to stop him he goes immediately limp. Like a cat picked up by the scruff of its neck.

“They were already gone.”

“There’s terrible security here,” Claude sighs, shaking his head, “Please don’t let us distract you from your patrol. Goddess knows, the monastery needs you.”

Silence.

“Okay, Teach,” Claude sighs, “Are you here to lecture us? Help us? I’d make a guess but so far each one has been wrong. How did you even know we were headed down this way?”

Byleth inclines her head, gesturing behind him.

“Betrayal,” he says when Hilda and Lorenz steps out from the shadows, both of them a little too smug for his liking. He tries to keep it a joke but finds himself unable to stop kicking himself for allowing this to happen. Of course Byleth wouldn’t have trusted him to move about on his own. What had he been expecting? He barely knew her and she’d ignored any and all of his actions for the past week a little too easily.

“Exile for both of you. Goneril and Gloucester are removed from the roundtables,” he says, keeping his voice playful.

Lorenz snorts, drawing himself up, still far too pleased to show any of his usual annoyance for Claude’s antics, “You’ve no such power over us.”

“Besides Claude, if you hadn’t wanted to be caught, you would have been way more subtle,” Hilda says, winking at him.

“How did she even drag _you_ into this?”

“I’m always interested in the comings and goings of my friends,” Hilda waves her hand as if shooing a fly, “And I was suppose to be front lines on a mission this month anyways. I think this counts. I’m sure Professor will let me off next month.”

The last piece is pointed and Hilda grins when Byleth shrugs, taking that for acceptance.

“And _I_ was fulfilling my duty to the Leicester Alliance,” Lorenz says, adjusting his jacket, “I cannot idly stand aside while our would-be leader makes a fool of himself.”

“What exactly are you looking for down here?” Hilda asks, “I can’t imagine the Church has got anything great squirrelled away in _here_ of all places.”

“Well, there’s no telling exactly what we might find until we look,” Claude says, grabbing her arm and tugging a little, “C’mon, now that we’re all here as a merry little band - we’re all in this together.”

“Hardly!” Lorenz recoils as if the thought of siding with Claude physically pains him.

“I heard something,” Byleth interrupts them, her voice pitched low but no less commanding.

Claude stills. Sees everyone else do the same. Silence hangs over their heads, tension rife in the air.

_The guard was gone,_ Claude recalls and leans into Byleth’s side, sharing a glance.

For once he can read the thought in her eyes, only mildly comforted to find she shares his.

She glances over them all as if cataloguing and he does the same. He has his bow but none of the others have weapons. Especially Teach. He eyes the spot where her sword had hung, wondering why she hadn’t replaced it.

Beneath them, in the darkness, he hears the slow, uneasy groan of stone. A coffin top shifted. Goosebumps break over Claude’s skin, a chill settling in his spine. Linhardt stiffens in Byleth’s arms and then slowly withdraws himself, taking a careful silent step backwards, alert with unease. Hilda glances to Claude, startled and bordering on fear. There’s a little tremble to her lips as if she’s thinking of making a joke but unable to summon it.

“What–“ Byleth slaps a hand over Lorenz’s mouth. Even the noble looks perturbed.

Claude counts out three voices. Pitched low. Too urgent to be knights or monks. In between the words are cautious steps and backtracks. Someone bump into something and readjusts, cursing a little under his breath. Movements made by someone unfamiliar with the area.

He hears more footsteps. Four intruders then? Five?

Byleth holds up six fingers to him. Only the barest furrow to her brow betrays her concern. He reads tension from the rest of her body. She’s poised as if ready to lunge. She stares straight ahead of if she can see her enemies. He’s reminded of the hunting birds his father had gifted him as a child. Recalls how he’d struggled with the weight on his arm as he directed it to a target. Can feel Byleth’s weight just the same against his side.

She grasps his shoulder, the strength just like those talons, and turns to rest of the students. She gestures at them all. Makes a circle with her index finger.

_All of you. Run. Now._

“What about you?” Lorenz mouths.

Byleth’s lips flatten. She doesn’t reply. Only makes the same gesture again.

_Run. Now._

Hilda is the first to go. She nods once and starts up the stairs –

“Hey, there’s a bu –“

Byleth moves before any of them can register. Claude barely catches Hilda as she’s thrown into his arms. He watches, unable to look away as Byleth’s hand closes around the intruder’s mouth, silencing him physically and then permanently, as her other hand - where had that dagger come from? - slashes a blade across his throat. She holds him for a moment. Waits until he’s truly dead and then lays him aside.

He didn’t even have time to draw his axe, Claude realizes, feeling cold.

He’d forgotten - had grown far too complacent - exactly how Byleth had moved that night in Remire.

“He’s … he’s dead,” Linhardt whispers, sounding faraway. He gags a little, hand against his mouth, “Oh … the blood.”

Surprisingly, Byleth doesn’t tell him to buck up. Only presses the dead man’s axe into Hilda’s hands. Though it’s bloody and rusted, Hilda accepts. Her face pale. Eyes wide. But hands steady as she takes the axe. As if she understands there’s no time for quibbling.

“Run,” Byleth says and Claude startles.

She’d stopped trying to keep her voice down. Pricking his ears, he can hear a murmur down below. Can hear footsteps coming towards them.

“Take down anyone you come upon. Lorenz, go with her. Provide cover,” her voice goes lower, more stern, unforgiving, “Do not hesitate.”

“This definitely does not count as the next mission where you take me off the front lines, Professor,” Hilda utters a low nervous laugh before she goes, Lorenz at her heels.

They would be fine, Claude tells himself. Hilda’s not the type to hold a line. Would be able to sneak through even if there were enemies above. Would be the first to flee. But Lorenz …

Claude startles when Byleth grips his arm, holding him back from following.

“Cover me as I go down,” she says.

No time for arguments. He has to trust her judgement. Obey her command. Gritting his teeth, he nods.

“Linhardt …”

_Enough of your whining. Take them down as you see them. It’s you or them –_

“Your hands are for healing,” she says, her thumb surprisingly gentle as forces him to unclench his hands, “So keep me up. And stay behind me.”

Claude feels as if he’s missed a step. Felt his foot go through air, stomach swooping as he falls. Her expression is soft, almost gentle. There’s no tension to her face. Only smooth lines. As there were no concerns in the world. No enemies running their way.

“Can you do that?”

Shakily, Linhardt nods.

As suddenly as it’d come, her expression closes again. Settling back to that same discomforting stare. She aims it well away from them, down the stairs. And then runs forward. Trusting them to move behind her.

It’s all Claude can do to follow.

* * *

Byleth ticks down the numbers as she runs. Battle soars in her veins like a pulse. She’d been built for this. Trained to run ahead and forward. Always well beyond her brother. Taking down enemies before they could even lay eyes on him.

Her dagger sinks into two people as they run to greet her in the staircase, finds artery and heart with ease as they try to duck out of the way of Claude’s arrows. Blood wets her hands as she tears them open. She doesn’t like Bylead’s fighting style. Doesn’t like how it allows others to encroach so far into her space. They should be long dead before they can see the color of her eyes.

A fire spell roars at her face and she barely ducks in time, feels the heat like a brand on her cheek. As if swallowed up, she feels the pain recede in the next moment. Doesn’t have to glance back to know it’s Linhardt.

Good. Found his nerve.

Much faster than Bylead had. Linhardt had looked so frighteningly similar to Bylead that night in the forest. Quivering like a rabbit.

_“I don’t want to kill.”_

_“Fine. I’ll do it for you.”_

Byleth breathes in the Heal. The increasingly frantic Fire spells aimed at her head recede into nothing more than a remembered warmth.

So long as he stayed behind her, she could protect him. So long as he kept her up, she could keep running, take out the enemies he could not.

Byleth shoves the dagger between the mage’s eyes, feeling nothing. He dies on a scream, hands still clawing at her arm, the beginnings of a spell vanishing with his life.

Idiotic.

They should have lain in ambush. Waited for her to crest the opening of the stairs.

She throws herself in a roll on the exit out, surprised when nothing flies over her head. The layout of the room falls into place, information rushing through her.

Coffins to either side. Two of them opened. One in the back.

Two dead bodies.

“Professor,” Jeritza greets her, expression unchanging as he withdraws his blade from an intruder’s back. The man gurgles something and Jeritza neatly steps away to avoid the dying man’s hand.

Byleth doesn’t budge. Not even when Claude bumps into her, a gasp caught in his throat as he struggles to right himself. She hears Linhardt approach as well. Slower. More cautious.

“Jeritza?” Claude asks, caution heavy in his voice, “What’re you doing here?”

“I heard a disturbance,” Jeritza replies. Nothing about his face or voice gives anything away. He walks towards them, posture easy. She reads no intentions in his movements. Only the simple careless steps of a man who’d completed his duty, “I imagine you did as well.”

He nods towards the staircase, “Apologies, seems I missed a few.”

“Oh, that’s fine. Teach was here,” Claude says. He steps out from behind Byleth, glancing around slowly, making a show of nonchalance, “Did you find out why they came?”

He’s still holding his bow. Hasn’t moved outside of Byleth’s range.

“No. They were weak fools. It took no more than a simple strike. Perhaps next time there will be an enemy worthy of my sword.”

Jeritza lets out a noise of derision. Steps towards them. Claude bristles, leans a little closer against Byleth’s shoulder. Behind her, Linhardt grabs a fistful of her cloak, his voice shaky as he presses his forehead to her back.

“Sorry, Professor,” he says, voice thready, “I’m no good with blood. Can we turn back?”

“Good plan,” Claude says but he doesn’t move. Eyes still on Jeritza, as if afraid to take his gaze off the man.

Jeritza says nothing of it, only glances at them both dismissively as he strides pass them.

Byleth catches magic as he goes. Metallic and bitter. So heavy on his hair she tastes it on her tongue.

“Hey, Jeritza,” Claude begins and Byleth raises her hand, tries to stop him.

“Why do you smell like Warp?”

Byleth catches Jeritza's sword against the flat edge of her dagger, turns it up as she slides between them. Jeritza doesn’t flinch from her block, twists his blade, angling it so that it digs past her cheek and corner of her ear on the way up.

Dimly, she registers shouts at her back. Feels an arrow whiz forward and takes advantage of the distraction to press back into Jeritza.

“Hmph … it would have been easier if you’d only believed me,” Jeritza says, as if he does not particularly care either way, shaking his blade out as he disengages, “What a waste of their pitiful lives.”

And then the world ripples around them. Burnt metal filling the air as space rends around them. 

* * *

Hilda gags as her axe caves in an attacker’s head. It’s too easy. A human skull shouldn’t open so easily.

Like jelly, she thinks, unable to look away from the hideous mess that was the man’s head. From behind, Lorenz unleashes a flame large enough to consume the man. The smell is infinitely worse.

How did Holst deal with this?

Was this how death always smelled?

Fighting back the thought, she dodges around the corpse, rushing into the open monastery grounds. Breathing deep. The fresh air tasting like freedom. As if she was riding the winds.

They’d been lucky enough to only find one other attacker. Hadn’t had any difficulty getting out. Had been blessedly –

“Go find someone!” Lorenz shouts, shoving at her back a little. He twitches as if he means to apologize for that but then looks down the staircase, expression hardening.

“What about you?”

“I - I will return to the Professor’s side. There should no longer be anyone else coming from this direction.”

“Why?” Hilda asks.

Did he _want_ to die?

“We don’t know what they’ve found down there,” Lorenz says, “The Professor hasn’t come back up. I must go. It’s my duty.”

She wants to scream at him. Grab at his arms and tug him firmly back. Duty? Who needed those expectations? What if you failed? Then you’d have nothing to show but your dead body and the disappointment left behind.

“I’m certain you’ll find us reinforcements soon enough,” Lorenz says, flashing her a small smile. A genuine one. Nothing at all like the horrible insufferable flirtatious leers he kept throwing around.

“Don’t _do_ that,” she hisses at his back, stomach dropping as he only runs out of her range.

Obligation settling in the pit of her stomach. Coalescing like a lump of coal.

She didn’t want to run back. Who were these fools who kept running into danger? They hadn’t even received a mission for Goddess sake!

A glimpse of Lorenz dead flashes in her mind, his face broken and burnt as the man she’d just killed. Of Claude laid out in a crypt, unmoving. Of Professor standing in front an enemy, unchanging as ever as they pierced her through.

Hilda shivers. A chill seeping into her bones.

“_Idiot_,” she mutters, wiping angrily at the tears burning her eyes, hefting the axe on her shoulders as she ran off, “You’re going to make me run alone? I’m going to get all sweaty.”

* * *

“Get some sleep,” Bylead tells the Lions, trying not to smile at the way Annette’s head bobs as she half slept in her saddle. Were it not for Mercedes sharing her horse and holding her still, he’s certain Annette would have fallen off by now.

One by one the Blue Lions break off. Worn and exhausted as they head for their dorms.

Bylead loosens Byleth’s sword. He has to go return it. She’d be terribly annoyed with him if he didn’t go greet her immediately upon returning.

_“Dear me, I forget about your sister complex,”_ Sothis sighs and then at the flare of annoyance that rises in Bylead, _“Oh, you know it to be true. I suppose it’s rather cute for you two to be so close still… I imagine if I’d had children they were certainly very different people by your age.”_

Even if they were different people, they were still siblings. Bylead sets his jaw stubbornly. Ready to argue.

“Professor, might I have a moment of your time?” Dimitri asks. He lingers at Bylead’s side, hesitant. As if embarrassed for asking.

When Bylead nods, Dimitri takes a breath. Tries to square his shoulders. As if readying himself to face another group of bandits alone, “I want to apologize. When I first met you, I thought you emotionless. I thought you quite frightening. You showed no emotion, no joy or sorrow. In Remire, you didn’t even blink when you took those bandits down. It was as if you weren’t human.”

He says the words quickly. As if afraid of Bylead interrupting him.

“I cannot apologize for how wrong I was,” Dimitri says, bowing his head.

_“Hey now, do prince’s lower themselves so easily?”_

“What you said to Ashe … that was – I did not think –“ with a frustrated sigh, Dimitri shakes himself, offering Bylead a small hesitant smile, genuine and warm, “That was very kind of you.”

Bylead blinks.

“I only said what I was thinking.”

“Yes, I know,” Dimitri looks at him again, something searching in his eyes. He ducks away when Bylead only stares back, looking down at his fists as he opens and closes them, “But you soothed away his misgivings because you cared to. Gave him something to think on instead of the bloody horrid deed. I’m glad you’re my – our Professor.”

His brow furrows a little, “You may have guessed, but that time in the forest was no isolated incident. Whenever someone has to die, I’m reminded of the day my family died. The weight of their lives is heavy … it’s as you said … feels tombstones around my neck.”

“I said I don’t carry those,” Bylead says.

_You shouldn’t either._

“I know,” Dimitri shakes his head, blue eyes going sad and distant, “But you dont’t let them go either. Not completely. And you don’t let them swallow you up. It’s… admirable. And comforting to watch you walk so unwaveringly. To know that it’s possible. Some days, I feel as if the ghosts will never loosen their hold on me until I join them.”

Sothis is a sad solemn touch in the back of Bylead’s mind. She’s thinking back on Zanado again. Of a time long past but unremembered.

“I have much more I wish to learn from you,” Dimitri says, shaking off grief with such well practiced ease it hurts to watch. Standing tall once more, blue eyes intent as he looks directly into Bylead’s eyes. Close enough to be discomforting, “But i wanted to say this. Words cannot express how glad I am to be your student. To have you by my side … guiding me.”

“I’m going to blush.”

Dimitri barks out a laugh, startled, unable to help himself. He quickly stifles the sound in his hand, “Professor, you can’t say such things with such a blank face.”

“No, really,” Bylead says, struggling to keep his expression neutral. He has no idea how Byleth could smile and wink when others threw compliments at her, “Coming from a prince. I could swoon.”

“Professor,” Dimitri shakes his head, blushing red himself, “You’re teasing me.”

“Professor Bylead!”

Hilda’s voice. Urgent. Frightened.

Shatteringly loud over Bylead’s soft peace.

“It’s Professor Byleth!”

He’s moving before he can think.  



	9. White Clouds: Sword of the Creator

Byleth dies.

Bylead arrives just in time to see her run through. Pinned to the wall like a butterfly for display. He hears himself scream, shrill and high, terror clawing at him, sinking nails into the vulnerable flesh of his throat.

_“Turn back! Hurry!”_ Sothis shouts at him and he doesn’t hesitate, yanks at time with desperate urgency.

The sight of his sister, still and bloody, follows him backwards. Expression steady even in death, as if she intended to come back to life for her vengeance. Bloodied hands. Still holding her weapon. They always knew she’d die fighting. He’d have to tell father. The threat chokes at him.

He interrupts Dimitri with a hitched gasp.

“Professor?” expression going from embarrassed to alert in a breath, “Are you alright?”

Bylead doesn’t reply, runs forward to greet Hilda before she’s even aware of their presence. Outpaces the two of them, racing towards a danger Hilda had not yet warned them of.

Byleth dies protecting that kid of hers. Lorenz. Throws herself over him, intending to parry Jeritza’s sword with a dagger – Bylead recognizes it as his – and the worthless thing shatters. Only her eyes convey surprise as Jeritza’s blade cuts into her. Through muscle. And skin. Into the core –

Bylead yanks Lorenz out of the staircase the next time. Sinks daggers to the throats of the first two mages to approach the boy.

Byleth dies, shoving Linhardt to one side. Swarmed by a group of mages as Jeritza punctures her lungs. Her teeth sink into Jeritza’s throat in retaliation, biting down hard enough to rip through him, unrelenting even as her strength fades.

Bylead doesn’t stay long enough to watch her go still. Can’t bring himself to think of her eyes again, open and unseeing.

Time spins, unwinds.

Byleth leaps over Lorenz. Throws all his blades and throws himself forward, hands blazing. Only vaguely aware of Dimitri’s hitched breath at the smell of mage fire and death. Knows the past is reaching forward for the prince yet again. Bylead ignores it. His attention on his sister. He couldn’t afford to think of others now.

_“Make your choice kid.”_

And between the world and his sister, he would choose Byleth first. Bylead lunges for the many mages that try to corner her. Dimitri and Lorenz at his side. Hilda at his back.

Byleth dies holding her stomach inside herself this time, bears a wound meant for Hilda and Lorenz. She doesn’t even offer Bylead a sign by screaming. He doesn’t realize until half the mages are dead and she’s stabbed Jeritza in the throat. Bylead only sees her slump forward and the watery gasp of her final breaths follow him backwards this time.

Bylead runs faster. Swings better. Screams for the students to do the same. Leaves them behind. Has them as back up. Throws them in the fight faster. Sends Hilda. Sends Lorenz. Sends Dimitri.

And still Byleth dies. And dies. And dies.

Again and again.

Always before the others. Always in front. Falling for someone else. Dying for someone else.

He couldn’t understand it. Hated to think on it. Something bitter and cloying in his throat and nose. Something hateful threatening to swallow him up.

There’s so much blood. So much red.

It floods Bylead’s feet, rising and rising until it threatens to swallow him whole. Because that’s his sister on the floor. His sister caught on Jeritza’s blade like a pig on a roast. His sister falling to pieces and still pressing forward. Blood in her mouth, fire in her eyes –

_"How many more do you have?"_ Sothis asks, her voice high and reedy. He can feel her panic like a pulse. Can feel her fear echoing. Far outclassed by his own.

_“Enough.”_

Doesn't matter if it's a lie. He’ll make it truth. Will burn his demands into the universe itself and make it law. Byleth’s head rolls to his feet and Bylead grabs at time with both hands.

Grips it like cloth and yanks until it obeys him.

And this time –

* * *

There’s too many of them.

Fifteen all total. More than a few dead by her hands but not enough.

Byleth blinks blood from her eyes, rolls ash and fire in her mouth. There’s still lightning crackling up her left side.

And then there was this –

Byleth grunts as Jeritza strikes again, barely able to catch the sword against her dagger. The hilt bites into her palm. The edge of the blade crumbles a little, eroding steadily like cliffs before saltwater.

She twists to shake the weight of Jeritza’s sword and meets him again when he comes. His sword falls with a weight unbecoming of a mere ceremonial sword. She could at least take comfort in the fact that he’d been unprepared for this encounter as well.

_Idiot, you can take your comfort in your grave._

She shakes herself. Couldn’t allow herself to think of such pointless things now. Can’t afford to be slowed down. No thoughts. No second guesses.

She swipes at Jeritza’s legs, following through when he falls away. Her dagger bites metal as he swings up in a block; vibrates in her hand as she’s shoved off.

No time to recover.

Byleth grits back a yell as Jeritza’s blade sinks into her calf, barely manages to twist herself far enough out of the way to avoid losing a limb.

Would be troublesome. Would slow her down. Would keep her pinned and allow him to go pass her to <strike>Bylead</strike> the students.

Byleth lunges at him from the ground, taking the brunt of his sword with her left arm guard, feeling it cave and buckle. Blunt pain roils through her arm and she ignores it in favor of digging the dagger into him. Misses as he twists aside and offers his shoulder in replacement for a heart.

Jeritza’s fingers sink bruises into her upper arm, strength unwavering despite the dagger to his shoulder. He rips her off with too much ease. Throws her halfway across the room like a ragdoll. Reflex closes her hands over her dagger, just hard enough she manages to take it with her. Her head swims as she slams against a coffin. Only for a moment before something blue and gentle soothes over her. Pain presses urgently back against the spell, wanting her to know it. Wishing to sink into her.

Her injuries were increasing. Nearly enough to outpace Heals. She grits her teeth. Forces back everything.

She has to get back to her students. Can already see a handful of mages pressing forward as Claude’s supply of arrows began to fall. Byleth throws herself at them, ignoring the hard swipe of Jeritza’s sword at her side. The mages were priority. She could see fire and lightning crackling the air. Lighting Claude and Linhardt in a wash of color. Claude manages to kill one - a well placed arrow to the throat but Linhardt wavers in his responding spell.

_Faster. Faster._

Something erupts behind her. Not aimed for them so it doesn’t matter. She runs for the two nearest mages and they scamper back. Their dead companions serving as valuable lessons. Ozone fills the air. Lightning rushing to greet her.

Byleth bites her lip bloody as she races through the spell. Electricity is a cold heat through her veins, rips at her arms and body like broken glass.

_Push._

No wavering. No turning back. No recoiling. She runs for her targets. Tasting iron as she slices through the mages’ spines. Claws through them all, again and again. The world blurs under her. Bodies fall one by one. Matted hair. Bloodied shoulders. It smells and tastes like a war ground. So much blood swimming up to greet her. The smell melding into one. Metallic then sweet then cloying and –

“A sword?”

Her dagger shatters in the last man’s skull, snapping in half in the middle of his forehead. He slumps over the coffin he’d opened, still twitching. But that didn’t matter – there was a blade. A sword.

Hideous. Repulsive.

Byleth feels her breath like an echo of wind. Shaky. Drawn tight like a thread pulled to its limits. On the cusp of snapping. She could feel the world spinning around her but the sword hovers like a constant. It sings for her. Reaches out for her. She grabs for the hilt, snatches it from the dying man’s hands.

Turns.

And screams.

* * *

“Get your _fucking_ hands off my BROTHER!”

* * *

“Professor Bylead!” Lorenz shouts, the words watery.

Bylead hears himself gasp. The sound wet, dampened inside his chest. Unable to reach his lips. Blocked by Jeritza’s sword reaching down his throat and into his chest.

Lorenz’s grabs for him but Bylead pushes him firmly down on his knees. Far out of reach of Jeritza’s sword. Kneeling.

Maybe next time he’ll apologize. Lorenz was a noble after all.

Dimitri’s hands are on Bylead’s other arm. Strong enough to bruise. He’d have to teach him to control that. Bylead coughs, the pain in his chest blooming like a rose as Jeritza twists the blade. Takes him to the ground and Bylead has to struggle to shove Lorenz aside. Dimitri reaches and Bylead feels himself cut open as Jeritza slides the sword through him, turns it towards his student undeterred as if Bylead’s body were nothing but thin air. How unlike the shield Byleth could form of herself.

Dimitri’s lance shatters, the handle cut in half. Dimitri’s blue eyes are unwavering as the sword cuts into his face, burning with cold rage beneath a mop of blonde. It’s jagged at the edges. Something dark swimming to the surface.

In Bylead’s ear, Sothis is screaming.

A green throne swims to the forefront of his mind.

A battlefield.

A woman –

All of that shatters, skittering away in light of Byleth’s roar. Her shouts shatters through the mausoleum, loud enough, broken enough, furious enough the world shakes.

Byleth runs for him. But she’s too far. Won’t make it. But she’s alive. And perhaps next time – next time –

Bylead’s fingertips graze time –

The sword leaves Dimitri’s neck, the blade sealing up the wound there. Blue eyes blink with life.

Bylead feels the sword enter him again. The pain crystal clear. It punches his lung again. Settling like a sheath. Digging and then slowly retracting, sliding out of him in increments.

Time slips in his grip, the second escaping through his fingers and he needs to get them back. Turn it further. Further –

And then something snaps.

The blade’s still leaving him. Time still rewinding.

But Byleth…

Byleth doesn’t. She’s turning and moving forward. Grabbing for the sword faster this time. Aimed for it over all else.. Moving ahead. Forging a path beyond him. Against the current. Out of reach of all possible law. Moved by her resolution and nothing else.

A soft chuckle escapes Bylead, watery as the point of Jeritza’s sword pokes his throat again. He should’ve known it would take his own death to move her. Should’ve known all he’d had to do was cry out and Byleth would shatter the world to run to his side.

* * *

The sword is alive in her hand. Feeling like a limb. Long lost and painfully missed. Her hand squeezes the handle and in response it shudders. Pleased. Something darkly satisfied curdling within her. She can feel it extending. Reaching for her like two hands. Grasping at her. Sinking beneath skin. Into her blood. Into her heart. Her soul.

The blade pulses.

Burns like a flame. Hot. Hungry. Starving for life.

Something heavy and weighted thuds in her chest. Almost like a heartbeat but not quite. Almost like a spell. Like a summoning. Like – like -

She grabs for it and _pulls_.

Like a cast of oil set aflame something blooms in front of her eyes, sparks like a live flame and with it the sword slithers apart in her hands. Unravelling like silk. It lashes out, guided by her fingertips, eager to snap out of the reach of her control. Swings through the remaining intruders and then forward, twisting like a cloth in the wind. Deceptively gentle. Bitingly deadly.

“The Crest of Flames,” Jeritza breathes the words as he stills and there’s something – reverent. Cautious. And then hateful as he turns back to Bylead, “Brother …”

* * *

The Sword of the Creator.

Claude knows it immediately. Pulls the image from books and paper. Black and white bleeding into reality. The sword glows in Teach’s hands like a beacon, singing as it tears apart.

And it’s wielder. It’s rightful owner –

Her passive calm is gone. Evaporating like droplets off Ailell’s rocks. Her mask is cracked wide, the first real look of emotion he’s seen from her and it’s a dark shadow, so powerfully hateful Claude feels rooted to the spot. Dimly, he’s aware of some of the mages retreating. Disarray in their ranks. Warps bleed out into the space around them as they pull back in fear.

It’s good for Claude. He can’t find it in himself to raise his bow. Can’t make himself look away from Byleth as she leaps off the steps in the back of the room, her focus zeroing in on her brother. Practically flying to his side.

Black fury seethes in her, worn deep into her features. Lips curled in a snarl as she runs for Jeritza. Agonizing to look at. Unbearable to try to stand between. She moves like an impossibility. Halfway through the room before any of them can think to react. Her blade, a mere extension of her fury. Intent. Resolute.

Demanding payment in blood and nothing else.

She swings.

The sections of the sword rattle like a reaper’s bone dice. Rolling on life or death. The blade screams and the world gives way.

Strong enough to cut down mountains.

Claude feels his heart thud, an echoing beat he feels throughout himself. The first beat of a war drum. The heavy low bellow of a hunter’s horn. Byleth’s blade sinks into the wall between Dimitri and Bylead, piercing through where Jeritza had once stood. He’d Warped just in time but Claude can see droplets of his blood on the floor and on the blade.

Blue eyes catch his as Byleth spins around, heavy as storm clouds. He nearly drops to his knees as she runs at him, yelping as she grabs at his shoulder, yanking him close as she swings behind him. Well into her range of her protection and he grips at her arm, unthinking, peering out wide-eyed over her shoulder as she carves a deep line into a mage just as Linhardt throws a Wind that cuts the man’s back into shreds.

“Thanks, Teach,” he says but her focus is not on him.

She’s looking around for attackers, for more enemies, expression half-feral. Promising swift death to any who dared approach her. There’s an undeniable safety within her arms. Feels as if no one that can pierce the firm walls of her protectiveness.

“Byleth,” Bylead calls, his voice soft in the ensuing silence of the mausoleum as the last mages wink out of the room wrapped in the shroud of their Warp spells, “Stop. There’s no more enemies.”

Claude feels her go loose. As if her strings have been cut. The tension blowing out of her like a spring gust as she looks to her brother, finding something there that assures her of their safety.

She glances at Claude for a half second, an appraisal that makes his skin tingle. And then her attention focuses on Linhardt. He hasn’t moved since firing his last spell. His breathing is shaky as he stares down at the man he’d attacked. A near match to their attacker’s shallow breaths. Barely clinging to life.

Byleth throws the sword into his skull with crushing finality.

She releases Claude to hold a hand - the one with less blood on it - over Linhardt’s eyes, her voice breaking into dust at her next words, “Don’t look at it. You didn’t kill anyone. I did.”

Claude feels his heart trip, leaping into his throat as Byleth tilts forward. As if those very words had drawn the last of her strength. He hears himself shout her name as he grabs for her, buckling as he tries to hold her upright. Her breath is cool over his cheeks and he nearly weeps with relief.

Should’ve known the wielder of the Sword of the Creator wouldn’t be taken down so easily. He can feel his heart pounding still. The adrenaline of the fight coursing through him hard enough he’s practically trembling.

A hero from legends had leapt from the pages of a book. And he’d borne witness. Had been swept under her protective sweep. Had been granted him a front seat view as she tore the word asunder with her strength alone. His heart pounds as he stares at her face, willing himself not to reach out and touch as Linhardt kneels, casting one last Heal over Byleth’s slumbering form.

“Professor? Professor!” Dimitri shouts behind them and Claude turns just in time to see Bylead going down too.

* * *

“The Knights of Seiros will find the instigators,” Rhea says and her voice trembles with barely contained fury. It crackles at the edges of her words, lances up into her face as she looks at the sleeping twins. She touches a hand to Byleth’s forehead, shifting to adjust a lock of hair.

Claude thinks Byleth would not like that very much but no one stops Rhea.

Hilda, Lorenz, and Linhardt are gathered around Byleth’s bedside, wearing varying expressions of concern. Lorenz’s hands are fisted in his lap, sitting at the very edge of his seat as Manuela softly details the extent of the twins’ injuries. Claude thinks a light touch would send Lorenz springing forward on his long legs and any other time Claude would tickle a the feather of an arrow against the back of Lorenz’s neck just to see it happen. But not now.

He’s out of arrows. Couldn’t remember when last he’d fired one. Everything before the second Byleth had picked up the Sword seems to have been seared from his mind, burned away in the red glow of her blade.

In contrast to Lorenz, Linhardt is a solemn statue, immovable as he stares blankly at Byleth’s sleeping form. Every now and again Linhardt’s fingers sputter green. As if he were back in the room, trying another Heal. Slapping bandages upon bandages, struggling to keep up as Byleth threw herself forward and forward again and again. An unstoppable force bleeding out for them. Claude startles as Linhardt does when Seteth puts a hand on Linhardt’s shoulder.

“You must not punish yourselves,” Seteth tells them all and no one replies.

By Bylead’s beside, Dimitri’s hands are clenched around his lance and they twitch tighter at Seteth’s words.

“This was an unprecedented occurrence,” Seteth says, features soft with unexpected emotion, “We will be looking for the culprits. To think Jeritza was able to enter these holy grounds as a friend reflects shamefully on all of us.”

“They were looking for that I guess,” Hilda says, pointing to the Sword of the Creator. Her voice is carefully framed, so well done it could pass for her usual boredom were it not for the faint notes of tension. She blinks and looks half a second from crying before she folds it all back.

“The Sword was never meant to be held by those fools. Not to be even looked at by them,” Rhea says with absolute finality. As if the Goddess, herself, spoke through her and declared them unworthy, “It has chosen its rightful wielder.”

“Why Teach?”

Rhea doesn’t reply for a long moment. Her thumb drags along Byleth’s cheekbone, her fury soothing away in increments, something else slipping in its place Claude does not quite understand, “I have only my faith. And hope. The Sword has been sealed away for years. Meant to be sealed for still longer. It must have called for you, guided you down. After so many years of being sealed away … the Sword has at last, found a master. I will entrust it to you, child.”

She speaks as if Byleth were awake and the only one to hear her. Leans in with an intimacy that makes Claude bristle.

“Rhea,” Seteth says, a note of warning in his voice.

There’s a commotion in the halls, a storm of footsteps fast approaching.

“Captain Jeralt, please they are resting!” someone shouts in the hall. It doesn’t deter the footsteps.

The doors slam open. So hard Claude is surprised it doesn’t splinter.

Jeralt is a live flame in his fury. The air crackles around him with tension. His expression set in stone as he appears in the doorway. There is a lance to his back but from the way the entire room seems to flinch away from him, it might as well be in his hands. Pointed straight at the Archbishop. His lips flatten at the sight of her, an unexpected look of hatred searing as he looks at Rhea.

He is not alone. There is a cluster of mercenaries around him. The threat of battle hums in the background, rippling through the air.

“Please! Enough of the noise,” Manuela hisses, “They are resting.”

Jeralt’s jaw twitches but he says nothing, only holds a hand up to his group behind him. With no small measure of hesitation, they disappear behind the doorway. Out of sight but not gone. Claude can hear them in the hallway, shifting restlessly.

“I cannot apologize enough, Jeralt,” Rhea says, bowing her head to Jeralt who takes such a gesture of deference from the Archbishop with the look of a man made to pick up wyvern droppings, “I promised you safety but was unable to fulfill. Words cannot express my regret.”

Claude can practically hear the grind of Jeralt’s teeth.

“They’re resting,” Manuela says. She touches a hand to Jeralt’s shoulder, “But they are alive. I expect Bylead to awaken tomorrow. Your children are safe.”

Claude can see the fight in Jeralt as he loosens himself from his anger.

“That’s what I thought when I left,” Jeralt says, his voice full of gravel. There is an accusation buried shallowly in his words.

His steps, slow and deliberate, echo in the stillness of the room. The size of him shakes Rhea from her place besides Byleth and he replaces her with yet another scalding look as he sits on his daughter’s bed. It’s only as he dips his head over his children that his anger cools a little, expression crumbling as he takes Byleth’s hand. His other hand brushes over his son’s forehead, pushes the hair from Bylead’s eyes. There’s a gentleness Claude had not expected from the Blade Breaker but he cannot find it in himself to be shocked.

“I apologize for allowing them to come to such harm. You must know I care deeply for your children, Jeralt,” Rhea sets a hand on Jeralt’s shoulder. Squeezes. Claude doesn’t miss the ripple of strain that comes over Jeralt again at the touch, “Rest assured, we will investigate this matter to the fullest.”

“Leave me and my kids alone,” Jeralt says, spitting the words out through clenched teeth. He doesn’t turn to look at Rhea. And then, when no one moves, adds quieter, “Please.”

“Come children,” Manuela ushers at them all.

Claude rises with the rest of the Golden Deer and Linhardt, following closely after Rhea as she leaves. He sees her cast one more glance back into the room and feels himself shudder. Her concern held up against Jeralt’s is many shades cooler. Aimed elsewhere. There was a touch of detachment that made it less real. She was looking at Byleth still but looked as if she were trying to see a person Byleth might become. It’s reminiscent of the look on his father’s face when he’d first been poisoned.

_“Get stronger from this,” the king had said, brown eyes looking far beyond Claude’s feverish form, ignoring the grip of Claude’s hands on his shirt as he rose to a stand._

But there had still been a parental fondness there. Concern for Claude clouded but not entirely overwritten by his need for his son to grow up better. Stronger.

There’s no trace of that in Rhea.

Claude still cannot put a word to the expression that’d dropped over Rhea’s face when she’d gifted Byleth the sword but he can recognize, now, the faint glimpse of desire there. Something darker and greedier. And while Claude can understand that, can feel an echo of those same sentiments in his own heart as he looked at Byleth and the sheer power she’d wielded with ease, there’s something undeniably … more to Rhea’s gaze.

As if she meant to swallow Byleth whole in her desires.

* * *

“Please,” Dimitri says as everyone else clears the room, pleading softly, “Allow me to stay.”

Dimitri steadies himself, daring a glance at Jeralt, bracing himself to bear Jeralt’s searing anger, but finds nothing there for him. Jeralt stares ahead, a furrow still on his brows but many times softer, made gentler by worry.

“Cap, saw the Archbishop and the kids go downstairs,” one of the mercenaries peek their head inside. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. Enough that he has to stoop to clear the doorway. A build like Dedue but much larger. Fully grown and without any of the soft edges lingering from his teenage years. Dimitri recognizes him as Almyran from his skin and dress. The mercenary casts one glance at Dimitri but quickly dismisses him, focuses on the Jeralt and the twins instead, “Need us still?”

As if they’d truly meant to start a fight when they’d barged in the room a moment ago. Dimitri glances at the battle axe strapped to the man’s back. Looks at the man’s broad shoulders and easy movements. A similar shade to Bylead’s movements and casual grace when on the battlefield. Unable to help himself, Dimitri tenses and at once the mercenary looks at him again, fingers twitching.

“No, go get some sleep.”

The mercenary shrugs, tension leaving him as he leans out the door, translates the order into, “Get the hell out. Cap’s crying.”

To Dimitri’s surprise, it has the effect of soothing the last of Jeralt’s anger, makes him roll his eyes and smile a little. Dimitri hears the mercenaries start to shuffle away. A few of them glimpse in the room to offer things like:

“Someone finally took her down, huh? Props to them.”

“Hope she took their throat out with her teeth.”

One drops a flask of something by Byleth’s nightstand and another drops a pouch by Bylead’s.

“Hurry up and go, you pack of mangy dogs,” Jeralt finally snipes at them and soft chuckles follow the group down the halls. The Almyran slaps Jeralt’s back slaps hard enough to make Dimitri wince and then leaves after one long look at Dimitri. As if judging him as an intruder.

“I’m sorry to overstep –“

“You want to leave then?” Jeralt asks as if he does not particularly care either way.

“No, I – please, I would like –“

“Then keep your apology.”

Dimitri bows his head over Bylead again, uncertain where to look. He can feel the mausoleum creeping up at him. Duscar just on the heels of that. Fire and flames threatening to strangle him.

It’d all happened so fast. Bylead had started like a crack of lightning. Still one moment and running the next. Professor had taken off so quickly and so urgently, running at Hilda as if he’d known all along she would be there and then had disappeared from Dimitri’s sight until Hilda had managed to lead him down the Mausoleum.

Dimitri had walked into fire and flinched back so hard, he’d nearly broken his lance in his grip. Bylead had seen it. Had twitched towards him for a moment as Lorenz flung spell after spell at Jeritza and that momentary lapse in attention had brought Jeritza to them, a man fully accustomed to taking advantages where he could.

Without a thought, Bylead had shoved at the two of them. Kicked out at Lorenz’s legs so that he fell and shoved at Dimitri’s chest just as hard, ensuring he stumbled. The point of Jeritza’s sword had pressed the skin of Bylead’s throat, just moments from running him through. Crimson beading over the delicate skin like a tear.

A chill spreads in Dimitri’s chest. Feels like a crystal of ice. Each breath makes it press unpleasantly inside him. Bylead and Byleth had nearly died tonight. For him yet again. It’s difficult to keep his hands in his lap. To not take a hold of Bylead.

“Sir, I apol–“

“Shut the hell up, kid.”

Stunned, Dimitri blinks at the knight, cowing a little when Jeralt meets his gaze. It reminds Dimitri of the twins. Steady and heavy.

They sit in silence for a moment, Dimitri trying not to fidget, keenly uncomfortable. He wants to argue but it’s difficult to rise up against Jeralt. Especially as his son had leapt in front of a blade meant for him.

With a heavy sigh, Jeralt stands. Tugs back the covers on Bylead.

“Sir?” Dimitri asks and then louder as Jeralt tugs up his son’s shirt, “Sir?!”

“Kid, I said you could stay but not if you’re gonna make noise.”

Jeralt unbuckles a set of knives from Bylead’s waist. And then another three strapped higher on Bylead’s chest. Some more shuffling and Jeralt takes away about thirty knives strapped to Bylead’s arms, thighs, and hips. He lays them out in a long row on the floor at their bedside. It’s a comically large sum. Makes Dimitri thinks of their old court jester’s trick with scarves where she’d pulled out an endless row of many colors until the pile swam up around Dimitri, tickling his chin.

“C’mon, kid,” Jeralt gestures at Dimitri with a sword, taken from Bylead’s bedside.

Jeralt settles on the floor, pulling out a set of whetstones from his bag. He holds one out to Dimitri, “Must feel like shit just sitting around waiting for people to wake up. C’mere. Put your hands to work.”

“Y-yes.”

Casting one last glance at Bylead, Dimitri steps over to the knight. He was no stranger to weapon maintenance but in front of Jeralt, his fingers and hands felt as clumsy as they did when sewing. Rolling up his sleeves again, Dimitri nods to himself, biting at his lip as he mimics Jeralt’s steady movements. Bylead’s blades are meticulously kept. The ones unused were delicate and pristine, so light in Dimitri’s hands it’s a wonder they can pierce a body.

“You’re Lambert’s brat.”

Dimitri nearly nicks himself on the blade and then fumbles it when he pulls his thumb away. Jeralt is as steady and unfazed as ever. As if he hadn’t sent Dimitri’s heart into a race, beating so quickly and so loudly Dimitri could hear the echo in his ears. No one ever spoke to him of his father. Seemed to avoid the topic as if certain it would detonate in front of their eyes.

“Did you know him?”

“Nah.”

“O-oh…”

“Just saw him around the Monastery,” Jeralt makes a face, “And around the Knight’s quarters asking for lessons. Loud brat. Always had a lance in his hand. Him and that Rodrigue. Never could figure out where they got that energy.”

Dimitri stares at him, unable to look away, the new information making him dizzy as it settled over him. Chasing away the chill in his bones.

“Always thought he was too peaceful to be king.”

And just as quickly the chill is back. Old regret swimming up to greet him again, underbelly striped with anger.

“Cared too much about anyone and everyone,” Jeralt’s expression twists, “Damn shame when they did to Duscar in his name. He would’ve been furious.”

This time Dimitri does cut himself over the blade. Feeling it bite into his fingers, wickedly sharp as the sword that’d taken his father’s head.

“But the dead don’t get the rights to make demands I guess.”

“No,” the words are said in a growl. Tears from Dimitri’s throat in a low, hungry rumble. Dripping with vengeance and hatred. He can feel it stirring in him again, an old darkness difficultly kept and uneasily chained. Can feel the rattle of ghostly fingers in his ribcage, matching the lull of his breath; their fingers sinking in –

“Ain’t no one listening,” Jeralt speaks as if he hadn’t heard, “Hell, I don’t even remember what my wife sounds like.”

There’s a soft touch of grief as his hand stills over the whetstone. The last scrape echoing low in the room. There’s a different sort of tension now. Tinged with sorrow. Of the past and old ghosts. The sting in Dimitri’s lungs settles differently. No less pronounced but a shade less hateful and bitter, a breath of cold and discomfort Dimitri typically did not allow himself to feel.

Jeralt snorts, “But that doesn’t stop me trying. Her voice wasn’t as deep as Bylead. A little softer than Byleth too. I keep throwing parts and pieces until I can guess at her. Do the same thing with her words. Try and guess at what she’d say when I asked the twins to fight. Guess what she’d be feeling now.”

He looks at Dimitri, his gaze unnerving as it pierces through him - the twins really did get it from him, “But I know it’ll never actually be from her. She can never rise up again and tell me I’m right or wrong. To wipe at my guilt for letting her kids jump around the battlefield and come out half dead. Can’t ever tell me ain’t my fault. Can't be here to yell at them or train them better. All I got is my own regret for letting them run around. Trying to pin it to her face.”

Jeralt shoves at Dimitri’s chest with a cloth, “So keep your apologies and regrets to yourself kid. They’re just your thoughts and my kids ain’t dead yet. And I might be old but I’m alive enough to tell you I can’t take on both your regrets and mine.”

There’s a firm set to his jaw, ticking as he presses at Dimitri with the cloth until he takes it. In exchange, Jeralt takes the bloody dagger from Dimitri’s hands."My kids got their injuries jumping into a fight on their own. Their injuries are their responsibility.”

Jeralt wipes the dagger on his pants, sets about cleaning it, “But we can help minimize them for next time. They’re still kicking. Still breathing. So keep polishing kid. It’ll keep them up for the next time at least.”

Dimitri can only nod, unable to summon words for himself. To figure out if he agrees or disagrees. Thankfully Jeralt says nothing more. The grind of metal filling the space between them as they work steadily on. There’s a thin current of understanding, a fragile connection as paper-thin as butterfly wings and while it’s in Dimitri to tug at it until it snaps, he finds he cannot bring himself to do it.

“Me too …” Dimitri hears the words wobble as they leave his mouth, feeling as if he were listening to a stranger, “My father’s face … it’s starting to go blurry.”

Jeralt nods, “Yeah? Well here’s what I remember –”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been trying to deal with the grammar and spelling stuff -- hopefully it's been getting better the last few chapters ;=;


	10. White Clouds: Aftermath

Sothis is asleep on her throne, curled up and unmoving as Bylead approaches. She doesn't stir when he touches her shoulder, nor when he shakes her. Only breathes a little deeper, caught in the midst of some dream of her own. He waits for her by the foot of the throne, legs crossed, as if he is waiting for his father to come home from one of his rare jobs alone. And while Bylead has no sense of time here, he thinks a good while has passed with him just sitting.

It’s not a surprise when the throne floors start to shift and bleed brown. Bylead allows himself to give up his guard by Sothis’ throne, rising to his feet as he readies himself for the war. Already bracing himself for Nemesis’ sword and dragon fire but nothing comes. Only a heat settling over his skin, creeping up and over his arms and chest.

A honey thick, golden warmth –

Bylead opens his eyes to an unfamiliar room. Dust motes dance in the sunlight above his bed. Sothis hadn’t followed him out. He cannot feel her presence. There’s nothing but silence on her end. The same stillness that was his everyday before she had awakened that night in Remire.

He shifts, realizing he is in plain clothes. And that he cannot feel any of his many knives against his body. A quick glance around and he spots them laid carefully out in neat rows in front of his father. Who is dozing lightly in the corner of the room. A weary but constant sentinel.

“Dad?”

At the call, Jeralt's head snaps up, immediately alert. Confused surprised crossing his face. Followed by relief. And then overtaken with a fierce grin that smoothes the wrinkles from his eyes and mouth.

An unusual greeting for a simple morning.

Ah - perhaps because Bylead hadn’t used ‘dad’ for years now.

“You had me worried, kid,” Jeralt says, voice rubbed raw with emotion as he comes around to squeeze Bylead’s shoulders, “They said you knocked yourself out with too many spells - when the hell did you pick up something like that?”

Memories of the Divine Pulse slipping out of Bylead’s hands flicker in his mind. And with it comes a bone deep exhaustion. A heaviness settling over his shoulders like iron weights. Bylead muffles a hiccup of surprise into Jeralt’s chest as he’s pulled in for a hug. Lets his eyes drift closed in his father’s warmth, soaking up the comfort like sunlight.

“Is Byleth getting breakfast?” he asks and the sudden stiffness to Jeralt’s shoulders gives him his answer.

Pushing away, Bylead blinks back the last of his sleep as he looks over at his sister’s bed.

She’s unusually still. Doesn’t even look as if she’s breathing. Looking as if she could vanish in the sunlight. As if her presence and steady weight had been wiped clean from her body, leaving behind nothing but a husk. There are a series of bandages around her hands and a network of bruises sweeping over her shoulders and collarbone.

Bylead chokes on a cry, hands turning to claws in Jeralt’s shirt as an image of his sister, dead and bloody, floats up in his memory like a bloated corpse. That’s right. She’d died. Several times. He can see all of those deaths as clear as day. Haunted spectres lingering in his periphery like hanged corpses.

“Byleth’s not up?” he croaks out, knowing his father would understand.

Byleth always stood up first. Even with a hammer to the head. A wound to her stomach. She was always up and whole, unaffected and untouched, well before he was. Whether he was scarcely injured or wholly uninjured, Byleth always outpaced him. As if it were truly written into holy law that as the oldest she would go first in any and all things. First to rise. First to run into battle. And first to –

“She ain’t dead, kid,” Jeralt says, sitting heavily on Bylead’s bed. His eyes go distant for a moment, considering and then stern, “And not for lack of trying. Been getting more and more careless since that job in Remire, hasn’t she?”

Bylead bows his head.

“I thought I taught you kids better than that,” Jeralt growls. Despite the harshness in his voice, his hands are gentle as he grips Bylead’s, “She knows better than to run around sticking her head into things without any care for her neck. You do too.”

Bylead says nothing, picking at the covers.

“We can yell at her when she wakes up.”

A rough promise based in nothing but a promise nonetheless. Bylead leans into the comfort of it, tips his head against his father’s shoulder, allowing himself a rare moment. Without question, Jeralt’s arm comes around him, holding fast. Keeping Bylead steady in Byleth’s place.

"I almost didn't make it,” Bylead says. A lie but not really. He had failed to ‘make it’ several times. The words settle wrongly on his tongue but he cannot bring himself to elaborate further and twist it back around into truth.

Jeralt squeezes his arm and Bylead feels a shiver run through his father. This was new territory for the both of them. In all their years they’d never had to wait like this for Byleth. Never had she come so –  
Bylead turns his face into his father’s chest, forcing himself to breathe through the memories. Feels them like a stranglehold around his throat.

“She’ll get up again, kid,” Jeralt speaks as if he is making an oath.

Byleth would awaken again. Sit up in her bed as if nothing had happened and barely withhold from rolling her eyes at their fretting. She always did. She would now. And then they would both chide her for being the careless fool she always warned them both not to be. That would be enough for her to grouse at their concern. Try to wave it away with her easy logic because she –

“Professor!”

Bylead turns to see Dimitri enter. The prince’s expression is cracked wide with relief. At his back is Dedue, holding twin sets of flowers, neatly assembled and artfully arranged. A small smile graces the corners of his mouth, green eyes softening. To Bylead’s surprise, Felix is behind them, wearing the same stern glower that was his default. He looks to Bylead first, eyes sharp in their assessment, before moving on to Byleth. Something hardens in his gaze at the sight of her and he clenches his jaw.

“You’re up,” he says though he does not look to Bylead again, simply turning on his heels, “That’s all I came to see.”

And disappears down the hall.

“He means no offense, Professor,” Dimitri is quick to assure. He flutters at the bedside for a moment, eyes darting to Jeralt for the first time since entering the room and that seems to make him all the more uncertain, “He’s glad you’ve awoken. We all are. Everyone in the Blue Lions and the Golden Deer were concerned when they heard what happened.”

“We came to deliver some flowers,” Dedue says. He sets about arranging them in vases by the nightstand and it’s only then that Bylead notices the little mass of presents on his table. Mostly bite-sized treats and cookies with a few flowers and books interspersed throughout.

“You’ve been out for about three days now,” Jeralt says, sensing his thoughts, “The brats wouldn’t stop coming by.”

“I – we were all worried about you, Professor,” Dimitri says again, his brow furrowing as his lips press together. When he next speaks, his voice is strained, “You must not do that again.”

“His Highness informed us you went ahead without stopping to consider the situation,” Dedue adds, arms folding behind his back as he stands up straight and tall, “And without thinking to request further back up. I believe we all had dispersed mere minutes before you ran off. Plenty of time to collect us all. That was poor planning. And at odds with what you taught us during our lessons.”

Dimitri nods along with the lecture but there’s a shadow over his eyes. As if he means to add something else but does not feel comfortable doing so.

At Bylead’s side, Jeralt snorts, “Not bad, kid. You want to come back in a day or two and give the same lecture to his sister here? It’ll save me the breath.”

“I am merely expressing concerns for our entire class,” Dedue says, “I will certainly be back to visit and explain to Professor Byleth just how deep our concern runs.”

“Good man,” Jeralt says, a twinkle in his eyes but that’s not right.

He’s not aware that Bylead didn’t have seconds. None of them are. None of them can share the memory of his sister, dead and still, and none of them will because Bylead had done all he could to make sure of that. But he cannot say any of that. Common sense stilling the words on his tongue.

“I’m not sorry,” Bylead says instead. Stubbornly.

And he hears Jeralt sigh by his side. Both Dimitri and Dedue stiffen, frowning in disapproval. Radiating so much open concern it makes Bylead itch.

Bylead ignores it for the moment, only adding, “Byleth was in trouble.”

“And you getting yourself in more danger doesn’t help her,” Jeralt says, “I’ve taught you better than that.”

“It was for _Byleth_,” Bylead stresses.

Something dark and undecipherable crosses Dimitri’s face, the first glimpse of a storm cloud on the horizon.

“Kid.”

Bylead doesn’t say anything as a rough palm settles over his head, staring mutely back at his father because he is far too old to stomp his feet and insist on being right. But he is also not wrong and he refuses to acquiesce. Understanding sparks in Jeralt’s eyes but it’s easily crowded out by sorrowful concern as his father frowns at him.

Jeralt rubs at his mouth, lips flattening with unhappiness as he steadies himself for his next words.

“Kid,” Jeralt says again, pitching his voice low enough to be a whisper.

No matter how hushed, Bylead is certain they all can hear the sharp pain lacing through the word. So rife with emotion and so achingly heavy Dedue takes a step back, his attention focusing politely elsewhere, staring stoically at the flowers he’d brought. Dimitri is less subtle. Watching them both intently. His lip twitches a little, face pale as he catches Bylead’s eyes. With only a fraction of his usual princely grace, he steps back, bumping a chair as he goes.

Despite the ensuing noise, Jeralt does not look away from Bylead, his gaze heavy enough for Bylead to know he is thinking of his wife, of a mother Bylead had never known but only felt in the early years of his childhood when the grief was still fresh in Jeralt.

“I can’t lose you. Either of you and sure as hell not both all at once. I’m not built for that,” Jeralt says, his expression crumbling and torn. As if he had stood in a storm, weathering wave after wave of grief, and come out eroded and broken to pieces.

Bylead shifts uncomfortably in the bed. An apology on his lips but his stubbornness and clear memories keeping it from piercing the air between them.

“I … will do better next time,” he says instead because he can’t make himself be sorry for risking his life for his sister. Never sorry for that. But he can promise to be better next time. Can try to be faster and stronger and –

Jeralt sighs, cuffing him in a one-armed hug. As if the awareness of their small audience is keeping him from a full embrace.

“I guess that’ll have to do, kid,” he says. His eyes are sad, the brown muddy and soft with emotion, and Bylead is eleven again, clutching a dagger in his hands, learning to choose between life and death. Knowing that no matter which he chose he would never be completely right.

In a blink, the emotion is gone again, neatly withdrawn as Jeralt glances to the two others in the room.

Jeralt shoves at Bylead’s shoulder, pushing him up out of bed, “Now go get us breakfast.”

“I want to stay –“

“I know what you want, kid, but you haven’t eaten since you went down. And I’m starving,” Jeralt says, voice strong and commanding again as if he were detailing a job. Allowing only logic to guide his words. He pokes Bylead’s chest, “Get enough for both of us. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“I’m coming back immediately after,” Bylead says.

“I’m sure you are.”

* * *

Dimitri barely looks at him the entire walk to the dining hall. His shoulders squared and posture straight, walking ahead of them all at a brisk pace but never fast enough to lose them. Bylead catches his eyes once during the walk, a fleeting exchange quick enough to be meaningless, but something starkly frightened and painfully upset crosses Dimitri’s face in those smattering of seconds. The emotions vibrant enough to make Bylead startle.

“His Highness is … reminded of past events,” Dedue says quietly, pitched low enough Dimitri does not hear. Dedue offers nothing more as they enter the dining hall.

The Blue Lions, sans Felix, are all gathered in the kitchen, a little pride comprising of cubs. Bylead blinks at them, feeling as if he has not seen them in years. There’s a thread of camaraderie between them. Ashe and Annette both swat harmlessly at Sylvain’s hands as he pilfers apple slices and pieces of chopped fruit, while simultaneously ignoring Ingrid’s subtle pickings. Mercedes weaves between them all with freshly baked quiches, offering only Annette and Ashe a shared slice as she effectively and effortlessly dodges Ingrid and Sylvain.

“Professor!” Annette is the first to run towards them, stumbling a little as she throws herself forward, knife still in hand.

“That’s dangerous,” Dedue cautions, gently taking the instrument from her as Annette grabs for Bylead’s arms.

“You’re okay! We heard what happened! We were so worried! Why didn’t you come get us first?!” she says, the words slurring together in one breath as her voice goes thick. As if she is about to cry. Bylead twitches at the attention and narrowly resists tugging away from her.

“Some of us were barely to our dorms when the Knights of Seiros were alerted,” Ashe says, coming over to join them all. His green eyes are flinty and his brow is furrowed. At odds with his typical shy smile and cautious mannerism. Bylead can feel yet another lecture creeping upon him.

“And some of us received the news the next morning,” Ingrid adds before Ashe can say anything more, her expression clouded, “That is … a terrifying thing to awaken to.”

She says the last line quietly, crossing her arms as if she intends to reprimand but her hands clutch at herself instead as if holding herself together. Her eyes go distant, “Please do not do that to us again.”

“We were all quite in a frenzy,” Mercedes adds in. Her hands are gentle as she soothes them over Bylead’s shirt front, adjusting the white open-collar shirt. Her fingers spark with warm magic, leaving Bylead’s skin tingling with renewed energy.

“You were all exhausted, it would’ve been more –“ Bylead begins.

“Come now, Professor,” Dimitri says, breaking his silence to spit the words out. Bylead sees his jaw work, can practically hear his teeth grinding as Dimitri tries to settle himself, “That’s a baseless argument. There were still plenty of other options. The Knights of Seiros are always on patrol. The Pegasus Knights as well. You could have sent Hilda or called for any one of us for further backup. You didn’t think to. I lost sight of you completely! Ran into the fight just in time to see –”

He sucks in a breath, the noise like a hiss as he draws himself straighter, glowering at Bylead, something darkly distressed in his voice and eyes, inching forward to the surface, “And you told Sir Jeralt you were not – Professor, I cannot abide by you throwing yourself away so –“

He turns his head, still grinding his teeth as Sylvain grabs his shoulder. With careless grace, Sylvain slots himself between Bylead and Dimitri, clapping his hands.

“Alright, alright,” Sylvain says, “We’ve all done stupid things. Good to know you’re human like the rest of us, Professor.”

He winks and grins but there’s something about his smile today that’s many shades colder, made so by the unusually sharp scrutiny in his eyes.

“Professor’s alright, he’s up and walking. Professor Byleth unleashed the Crest of Flames and saved the day. All in all, a good turnout. And we’re all plenty glad for that,” he continues, voice too precisely flippant to be genuine, looking away to the rest of the class, “Now, c’mon, we’re still in the middle of meal prep. I’m sure Professor’s plenty hungry with how long he’s been asleep.”

Sylvain doesn’t glance at Dimitri but leans back just a touch as he crosses his arms behind his head. A careless but effective gesture of comfort. He also doesn’t look at Bylead again as Sylvain ushers the rest of the students back to their previous stations. Guides Ingrid back to some semblance of her usual self with a stupidly horrible flirt and a hand against the small of her back. Sets both Ashe and Annette back at their stations with an easy push.

Leaving Bylead marveling behind him. Despite having memorized the student registrar, he is not often reminded that Sylvain is one of the older members of his house.

“I’ll help,” Bylead offers, waving off Annette’s protest, taking up station beside Ashe and lending a hand to carving up apples.

Bylead can feel Dimitri’s gaze on him still but each time he turns, the prince is looking elsewhere, clearly having just turned his gaze away. He’s not the only one, Annette and Ashe keep glancing at him, as if thinking he could vanish in a wisp of smoke. Even Dedue presses a little too close against Bylead’s side, refusing to budge when Bylead looks at him in askance. The kitchen going heavy with words unspoken.

“How … have classes been?” Bylead offers awkwardly and the air lightens a little as all of them let out a deep breath of disbelief. Well, not all. Bylead doesn't miss the way Dimitri tenses further, nearly hunching in on himself.

“Oooh, I can’t hold it in any longer!” Annette exclaims, “We were all so so worried about you we couldn’t concentrate at all! It’s not the same sitting in a classroom again. Felix keeps kicking his leg like he’s getting ready to jump out of a window! And Ashe keeps muttering to himself in the back of the class as he looks over books on battalions and strategic maneuvers.”

“Wha – I was just making notes,” Ashe says, a blush creeping over his face, “I just – it just gives me something to do instead of just sitting still.”

He glances at Bylead, biting his bottom lip as he adds, “Next time you must promise to bring us too.”

Dedue cuts in just as Bylead goes to protest, “Back in Zanado, you taught us about weighing a life. You should not forget that for us, you weigh heavy. His Highness said you just ran forward, as if you had absolutely no regard for yourself. I believe Professor Byleth would have many things to say about that.”

Bylead flinches, knife stilling over the cutting board.

It’s a low blow and as with any low blow, strikes Bylead in the gut, panged guilt slotting against him and making him buckle.

“I don’t apologize for running after my sister,” he mutters, mutinously.

“And we are not asking you to,” Mercedes replies calmly, grabbing for Bylead’s hand, loosening his grip over his knife, “Only that you remember to look back for us. We heard from Linhardt how you fought. Next time, you shall remember that you have many more hands to cover both of you.”

Something both light and heavy settles in Bylead’s chest. Startled realization flailing inside him, throwing him like a stone caught in rapids, unable to rally against it but also unable to settle. Any argument dies away, caught in his chest and torn asunder. _  
_

_“Don’t go anywhere I can’t, Byleth,” Bylead tells her, eleven again, standing up over the rabbit he’d slaughtered, pretending he isn’t shaking still as he lifts his chin,“You can’t just outrun me. You have to take me with you. You _have_ to.” __  
_

_“Ha, well you’ll have_ _to_ get a little more capable first,” Bylead says in a softer echo of Byleth’s words, forgoing the '_brat_' she'd affectionately slipped in there.

“Pfft, wow Professor, way to destroy the mood,” Sylvain’s laughter punctures the air. Too loud and too coarse as he pushes himself to the forefront yet again as others bristle and falter.

“It’s what Byleth said,” Bylead offers, suddenly self-conscious, “That last time ... when I said something similar. I guess, I understand where you’re coming from. And while I don’t apologize for doing what I did. I am sorry for worrying you all.”

They stare at him, utter silence falling over the kitchen.

“Agh … Professor!” Annette is the first to break it, wrapping her arms around his midsection in a hug.

Bylead pats her head, uncertain where to put his arms, feeling a little overwhelmed as the others start to creep closer as well. Ashe and Ingrid grip his upper arms and Mercedes is still holding his hand. Dedue stands over him still, just radiating a gentle protectiveness.

Sylvain watches from the sidelines, posture at ease but his eyes still distant. Holding Bylead far away though Sylvain smiles and laughs along for the others.

Similarly, Dimitri hangs back as well, watching still with some barely suppressed emotion. It’s a shade softer but not by much. He looks again as if he wishes to say something but the words still do not come. Bylead watches him steady himself and approach. Princely stern, Dimitri reaches his hand out, grabs for Bylead's and squeezes, thumb sweeping over Bylead's knuckles in order to clasp more firmly. His eyes hold a promise, something potent and heavy lingering on the very cusp of being spoken and ultimately left unshared as he releases Bylead's hand.

An uneasy, fragmented sort of understanding settles in the space between them, jagged edges awkwardly joined, still waiting to be soothed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited to work with Sylvain but really trying to pace myself on his character.
> 
> Slightly shorter chapter this time but more plot next time around and some more character work.


	11. White Clouds: Aftermath II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was typing this I realized I should have kept this as part of the previous chapter :/  
Initially was going to push through a little further plot wise but more and more scenes kept creeping in that felt like they needed to be touched on - fondly remembering the days were 5k was long for me and I could just skip to where I wanted ; = ;

Bylead’s dreams are more fragmented the next few nights, stuttering through war and then the throne as if unable to decide which to stay on.  
  
"Maybe because you’re sleeping folded in half on a chair instead of a real bed," Jeralt says when Bylead brings it up.  
  
Bylead politely does not retort that his father has been doing the same. The two of them hunched over Byleth’s bedside like gargoyles atop a cathedral.  
  
Inwardly, Bylead thinks it may have to do with Sothis’ slumber. She is a statue on her throne, caught deep in her own dreams and no matter how much he prods at her she never stirs. His mind is too quiet without her constant commentary, his thoughts bouncing around wildly as if he has too much empty space and nothing to fill it with.  
  
Byleth would surely have something to say about that thought. But any reminder of Byleth only makes him want to root himself to her bed or shake her until she awakens. Jeralt’s presence helps, the two of them trading off watches and it’s almost like they are mercenary once more. With no one to rely on but each other.  
  
Except for the presence of students.  
  
Lorenz goes as far as surprising both Jeralt and Bylead with a tea party, setting up a far too expensive and intricately designed tea set and table in the infirmary by Byleth’s bedside.  
  
“The Professor and Professor Bylead saved my life,” Lorenz had said, puffing himself up like a pigeon when Jeralt had tried to refuse, “I owe them both a great debt and this is the very least I can do. Please, allow me to stay.”  
  
And as if that allowance had opened floodgates, the others come as well.  
  
Linhardt is a constant presence, sleeves rolled up as he assists Manuela in her daily checks. Working to stimulate the healing in Byleth’s ribs and pinky. A gentle touch over her forehead as if encouraging good dreams.  
Others come for visits, cycling in and out of the infirmary with treats (Annette and Mercedes), a quiet moment with a still sleeping Byleth (Marianne and Hilda), or simply to chase Bylead or Jeralt from their chairs (Leonie and Dedue).  
  
Bylead sees everyone pass through the infirmary at least once except for Felix and Dimitri who Bylead only really sees in passing. Felix is not a surprise but Dimitri is. Each time Bylead catches his eye, the prince looks away, jaw clenched as if Bylead has wronged him. Dimitri makes excuses to be elsewhere each time they share a room. Not bothering to be very believable. Something angry and unsettling rumbles in his expression each time. As if he has laid fault at Bylead’s feet and refused to remove it.  
  
“He will be okay,” Dedue explains, “His Highness is only thinking some things through. I believe he will want to speak to you in a few days.”  
  
So Bylead doesn’t think very much of it, trusting Dedue to be right. His own time is taken up with other things.  
  
With his sister asleep and Hanneman back in the monastery - and far too excited by the news of Byleth’s new Crest than Jeralt had liked - Bylead steps in for the Golden Deer, really only assigning them different tasks and skills for self-study. He’s certain Byleth would have something to say about his half-heartedness but Claude is more than willing to step into place as both house leader and substitute Professor, offering Bylead nothing more than a wicked smile and easy words that makes him feel wrong-footed and ill at ease.  
  
It’s a startling contrast to Dimitri who speaks and moves in straight lines, constantly pushing himself towards a goal with easy to understand single-mindedness. Because as Dedue predicts, Dimitri is the one to march into the infirmary days later like a man on a mission.  
  
“Professor, I would like to ask a favor of you.”  
  
Dimitri stands like a knighted man. Heels are together. Back straight. Arms at both sides. Chin high. He looks at Bylead only, brimming with resolve. Jaw tight as if he expects a no but will refuse to take it.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“It's regarding sword training. Not for myself, but I have been teaching swordsmanship to the orphans at the monastery,” he says, the lines well-rehearsed. Bylead casts a glance at his father who lifts one shoulder in a shrug before going back to his book. Dimitri only continues faster when he catches the look, “Some of them saw me sparring with the knights one day and started pestering me to teach them. They were so earnest I couldn't help but oblige. There's much I wish to show them, but as I am still learning myself … Please, would you consider lending me a hand?”  
  
“You agreed and picked them up, kid,” Jeralt says, flipping his page, “You take responsibility for that yourself.”  
  
“Yes, but they may learn more with another instructor,” Dimitri says, lifting his chin and refusing to back down. He still does not look to Jeralt. Eyes only on Bylead, “Please Professor, I understand it is not your preference but you have grown up besides Professor Byleth’s swordsmanship your entire life and you are no slacker yourself. I have seen your capabilities in Zanado.”  
  
He bows low and Jeralt raises an eyebrow in Bylead in question. Asking if he would like to refuse.  
  
“Okay,” Bylead says, shaking his head at his father, turning his full attention to Dimitri when he comes back up. There isn’t a smile on the prince’s face. Dimitri only nods to himself sternly as if he has completed the first part of a difficult task.  
  
“Thank you,” he says stiffly, “Come, I promised them a lesson now.”  
  
Uncharacteristically, he does not wait for Bylead. Only turns and walks straight out, as if afraid to look back lest he hear a refusal.  
  
Jeralt only shrugs, “Like I said. You agreed. So you take responsibility.”

* * *

The children vary from very young to teenagers with a skillset wide enough Bylead could throw himself through the gap. Dimitri, himself, would be a more than sufficient teacher even for the eldest child but Bylead has the sense the prince has not called upon him simply for a lesson if the constant stares against Bylead’s back are any indicator. It sets Bylead on edge. Blue eyes burning two holes in his form and stance. And in retaliation, Bylead tracks Dimitri everywhere on the grounds. Keeps half a mind on the prince’s location and weapon at all times. Easily done because while the children are not utterly terrible, they are certainly no Byleth and they take many raps against their shins and arms and essentially any limb Bylead can reach until the children plead for a break in the lesson.  
  
Dimitri waves them off with his usual grace as Bylead sets about gathering the swords, moving purposefully slow and lingering by the weapon racks until he hears Dimitri approach.  
  
“Thank you, Professor,” Dimitri says, bowing again, “Captain Jeralt was right. It was indeed my responsibility to train them but not simply because I offered. I feel some connection to them … some need to help them. You see … I lost my parents without warning too. In that way, we're the same.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that.”  
  
“So says everyone … you needn’t trouble yourself with the thought,” there’s a touch of something cold in his voice and expression, the light in those blue eyes dimming as he turns a sword over in his hand, “Four years ago in Duscar I lost everything. Father. Stepmother. Closest friends. Living breathing souls turned into corpses with only a swing of a blade. So breathlessly quick it makes you want to scream at the Goddess.”  
  
His eyes, when he looks at Bylead, are haunted, far away and distant. Living a time past. A faint tremble goes through him and Bylead watches the sword handle dent beneath his grip.  
  
“Just the touch of a blade like a kiss against their throat,” Dimitri’s eyes focus again, burning as he stares at Bylead’s Adam’s apple.  
  
Self-consciously, Bylead touches a hand to his throat. His wound is fading fast, just a little nick but the skin there feels raw and tender. As if feeling the pain from another time. Bylead swallows and he feels the blade inside him again, racing down his throat to his lungs.  
  
“Dimitri, the blade only grazed me,” Bylead says. Not quite a lie.  
  
The prince flinches away as Bylead extends a hand to him. Something dark slithers over his face, just a fleeting shadow before his expression goes carefully neutral again.  
  
“I thought I could bear it. After all, it is hardly my place to address you in such a manner and berate you for your actions," he grimaces, gloves creaking as he forces himself to loosen his hold on the sword, "But do you know how that scene haunts me, Professor?”

It is unclear if he is speaking of the Mausoleum or Duscar. His voice a whisper, paper-thin and teetering on the edge of breaking, “Soldiers falling over me one by one. Their last words in my ears in a gurgle. Insisting that I should live. That they would be happy to lay down their lives for _me_.”  
  
“Is that not what knights do?”  
  
A bitterly hateful laugh croaks out in the air between them.  
  
“Of course,” Dimitri snarls, “That idiotic ideal. To lay your life down for King and country. Baring your throat in their place. Professor, I remember every face that fell before my feet. Full of pain. Regret. I _despise_ the memory of them and I hate myself for that. Professor, I do not want you to die a death like that. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. When I saw you in the Mausoleum standing over Lorenz and me, unflinching as you stared down the sword I –”  
  
He shudders, a full-body move and the sword handle snaps clean off. He looks at it without recognition, a half present confused irritation passing over him before he simply tosses the sword to the ground.  
  
“Would it help if I said I had no intention of dying for you?” Bylead asks. Closer to the truth. He’d only wanted to move them out of the way because Byleth would have leapt over in front of them. Had seen those timelines and can still see them now if he so chose.  
  
“I do not want you dying for _anyone_!” Dimitri roars and Bylead glances around the training grounds, startled by the outburst. Thankfully only Cyril is around and he casts Bylead a look of surprise before darting out, dragging the door behind him as he goes.  
  
“Goddess, can’t you see, Professor? You ran ahead of me as if you thought nothing of your own life. I saw your expression when Jeritza came to us. Determined. Grim. Like so many knights. So many now _dead_ knights. Resolute and decided on your own deaths, facing it down as if you, yourself, matter not a wit. So eager and ready to leave behind everyone you knew,” Dimitri makes a furious noise, a half growl deep in his throat, and his eyes, gleaming beneath his bangs are glazed and terrible to look at, “Heedless of how they might feel should you die for them. None of you ever think of that, do you? You don’t know how your specter hangs over them. That soulless eyes can look so real and damning on dark nights. That sometimes they can feel your touch like a real thing when the world is cold and still. That you –“  
  
“Dimitri!” Bylead grabs for him, unable to bear looking at Dimitri’s eyes. At the slow crawl towards something dark and hateful. Something that reaches up eagerly for Dimitri, wanting to drown him. He seizes the prince’s shoulders, shaking a little. Wanting him to stop, “Have you ever considered that maybe I do what I do because I don’t want to see my sister in that way?”  
  
“Coward,” Dimitri spits the word out. His hands are on Bylead's arms, gripping hard. He is still not looking at Bylead. Not really, “That you would curse me with what you, yourself, cannot bear to see. That you would force me to live with this burden? With this blood on my hands? This –“  
  
He’s not arguing with Bylead anymore. Looking well beyond him. Face pale and ghastly, drawn like a corpse. As if he had indeed died that day in Duscar and were moving solely on someone else’s fraying strings, falling to pieces before Bylead’s very eyes. There’s no trace of the prince who’d greeted them that night in Remire. No sign of his geniality and noble bearing, all of it blown away in the winds, leaving behind a broken man full of regret, burning with a need for atonement and apology for simply existing.  
  
Bylead grabs for his face, leaning into his space and holding him still as Dimitri’s voice goes sharper and sharper. Bylead has to raise his voice to be heard over the deluge of sorrow, “_Dimitri!_ Who are you arguing against right now?”  
  
A blink.  
  
And Dimitri is back with him. The haunting emptiness in his eyes twisting with pain. He slides them closed as if unable to bear it, breath hitching in a rough gasp.  
  
“I don’t know what to tell you about Duscar," Bylead says quietly, “And I don’t know what to tell you to soothe your feelings. I don’t know that anything can. But I do know that if I died for my sister I would be glad, from the very bottom of my heart, that she was still alive.”  
  
Bylead yanks him in when he feels Dimitri recoil, links his arms around Dimitri’s neck to keep him in place, “I don’t approach a fight intending to die. Byleth would kill me herself is she ever even suspected I ran towards death. And neither does she. But we’re mercenary and the world is not always kind. I think you know this better than anyone.”  
  
He feels Dimitri nod against his neck and pats his hair, “So if ever I have to make that choice, I will not hesitate. Because I love my sister dearly. And I want her to be alive. It’s selfish and she may hate me but I don’t care so long as she is alive to do it. And you don’t have to agree with me but I think at least some of the people that died that day in Duscar loved you just as much. And they would be very sad to hear you say you are not worthy of their love. I know I would.”  
  
Dimitri shudders in Bylead’s arms and Bylead grunts when he feels the prince wrap arms around his waist. Holding tight enough Bylead grimaces, recalling the way the sword had shattered like nothing.  
  
“But I can’t bear it. I cannot stand to think of that as love,” Dimitri whispers, the words scraping over Bylead’s collarbone, “I cannot stand to see them and remember them as corpses. How am I suppose to live with this? To be okay with their decision?”  
  
“I don’t know, Dimitri,” Bylead says truthfully, “But I don’t think you have to be right now.”  
  
Dimitri makes a noise like a sob, broken beyond words and Bylead pets his hair, combing gently through the blonde strands for what seems to be ages. Ignoring the wetness over his shoulder.  
  
“I don’t – _Professor_. Please don’t die.”  
  
“I always try,” Bylead says instead of a promise.  
  
In the back of his mind, he feels Sothis stir. A pain lancing through his chest. Weariness and exhaustion interlaced with a grief sharpened by loss. A sympathy pang from both him and Sothis for the prince in his arms.

* * *

There’s a woman on the throne, wreathed in shadow. Head bowed, shoulders hunched. She looks as if she is drowned by grief, sitting with her head almost in her knees, breathing low and shallow as if on the cusp of tears. Somehow, the noise is loud enough to echo around the room. Makes the walls reverberate as it bounces between the pillars and off the floors, painfully vibrant. In contrast, Byleth’s footsteps are a soft muted thud. As if she were stepping on hay or carpet instead of stone floors.  
  
“You’re awake now?” Byleth asks and then has to wonder why she’d asked that.  
  
She has the sense that she’s been here for a while. That she’d been pacing up and down the halls endlessly. There’s an ache in her legs and a bone-deep weariness that she only acknowledges but can’t quite bring herself to feel.  
  
Byleth approaches the throne and the room pulses as if in warning. Quiets when she undoes her step forward.  
Too many nonsensical rules to be reality but also far too lucid to be a dream.  
  
“Hey,” Byleth says, grimacing at the cracked whisper that leaves her throat.  
  
Had she been screaming at some point?  
  
“Hey,” she says again, stronger this time as she clenches her fists. Jagged nails bite in her palm and when she lifts her hands she realizes there’s blood on them. As if she’d been clawing at something. Desperate enough to bleed.  
  
“Oi,” Byleth says, crushing her uncertainty beneath her boot as she steps forward again, ignoring the pulse of the room this time.  
  
Skeletal hands grip the arms of the throne with a violence Byleth had not expected her to be capable of. The woman doesn’t lift her head, does not reveal herself. But suddenly, with no small sense of uncertainty, Byleth realizes she does not want that. Something within her, instinctively tethered, thuds like a pulse. Telling her in no uncertain terms that she does not want to see what lies beneath the curtain of hair and shadows.  
  
Byleth shakes herself.  
  
How absurd. How unlike her.  
  
“Sothis?” Byleth makes herself ask, spitting the words through gritted teeth as an endless chill fills her body.  
  
A familiar whip-crack of ice sluices up her chest, racing through her in jagged lines. She takes a breath and coughs, chill keeping the air from her lungs. The cold feels as if it’s cutting through her. As if she were nothing more than a hollowed skeleton.  
  
“You’re certainly not how Bylead described you,” Byleth makes herself gasp out, shoving aside the unfamiliar touch of dread. She couldn’t remember ever feeling fear like this. Not for herself at least.  
  
If this is what Bylead had been dreaming of, it’s a wonder he hadn’t gone mad.  
  
The thought makes her step closer. Keeps her from flinching away as the pulse starts like the shallow heartbeat of a dying woman and then rises, painfully loud. A hellish chorus of somber tones. Up and up. Faster and faster. So loud Byleth has to hold her hands over her ears. Still, the sound reverberates in her skull. Pressure closing over her head like a giant’s grip. She’s nearly close enough to see the woman. To make her out in the shadows.  
  
“Not yet,” the woman speaks, more to herself than anything else.  
  
Said in a low cracked whisper that makes Byleth’s hackles rise. Kicks her body in fight or flight. Makes her ache for a sword.  
  
The hair in front of the woman’s face shivers, rustling like wheat stalks in the wind. Threatening to reveal herself and dark dread slips in the chilling space in Byleth’s chest. One thick molasse drop escaping from its container sliding down her throat and pooling sickly in her belly.  
  
The woman shifts.  
  
Her hair moves.  
  
Red eyes glimmering with unending hunger. A noise like a groan and a plead slithers forth from her throat, mutilated as it exits and hangs limp in the air between them. Byleth reaches out to touch and then has to falls back, gripping at her chest.  
  
Her hands fall into her body, groping blinding at a gaping wound.  
  
Where a heart should be –  
  
And then something was burning. Roses and blood. Lilacs and metal. Cloyingly sweet and then hatefully bitter. Boiling up in Byleth’s throat. In her nose. Her eyes. Byleth opens her mouth to cry out and something presses down on her tongue, burning into the very core of her. She feels herself jolt. Feels her chest rip and tear. Pain ripping through her and then a deep entrenching sorrow tinged with regret and fraught with hatred and bitter vengeance. One by one the emotions lay themselves over her torn chest, like a burning latticework. Tying her down, twisting into her, making themselves at home in the cavernous gape in her chest.  
  
Pressing her into fire. Into –

* * *

Byleth’s nerves are alight, burning beneath her skin and she casts her attention outwards like a net, picking up everything around her.  
  
She’s alive. On a bed softer than her own. The sheets smell floral and clean, warm as the sun. She can pick up the barest strain of stringent antiseptic, overwhelmed by something herbal. She's in the infirmary.  
  
There's bird song outside. The low heavy ring of a bell. The press of warm heat against her cheek. A light behind her lids. Morning in Garreg Mach.  
  
And she’s not alone. There are three others. Young. Two male. One female.  
  
Claude, Leonie, and Raphael. Squabbling about …  
  
“If you hit someone with a severed foot, you’re still hitting them!” Leonie insists.  
  
“But it’s a _foot_,” Claude says, “And you kick with a foot.”  
  
Byleth sits up. Her body pulling and groaning at the movement. Telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she’s been too still for too long.  
  
“Teach! Morning! Professor Bylead and Captain Jeralt just went to get food,” Claude is immediately by her side, a wide grin splitting his face when she thanks him for the information, chest puffing out a little. Swelling with pride for guessing at her first thoughts?  
  
She wasn’t particularly subtle when it came to those which she found most important.  
  
“Finally decided to rejoin the land of the living, huh?” Claude continues, “Well, sorry to say but you’ve completely overslept and missed several classes and the appearance of your stunningly handsome, irresistibly charming substitute.”  
  
“Was it you?” Byleth sighs, rubbing roughly at her face. She nods at Raphael as he sets a washbasin by her bed, accepting the face towel he hands her gratefully.  
  
“Oh?” Claude bats his lashes at her, “So you think I’m stunningly handsome and irresistibly charming?”  
  
“Oh, shut up, Claude,” Leonie edges him out of the way with a rough shoulder, seating herself cross-legged on Byleth’s bed, intensely scrutinizing, “You don’t look any worst for wear. And from what Manuela was saying your injuries are healing nicely. Honestly, what took you so long to wake up?”  
  
“My sincerest apologies, Leonie,” Byleth says, keeping her face as bland as possible.  
  
Leonie scoffs, leaning back against the bedpost and crossing her arms,“Y’know Captain Jeralt sat by your bedside and refused to leave waiting for you to wake up. I’ve never seen him look so … well, like that. I finally convinced him and Professor Bylead to pause their watch and feed themselves.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“You can’t just run around worrying Captain Jeralt like that,” Leonie says, “It’s not good for his health.”  
  
“My father has a habit of worrying needlessly,” Byleth says, voice muffled in the towel as she cleans her face.  
  
“Aww, c’mon Professor,” Raphael booms suddenly, his tone somehow both jovial and chiding.  
  
When Byleth peers out from behind the towel he is gazing at her wearing his ever friendly grin, unassuming and full of none of the concern and indignation Leonie wears. Holds nothing of Claude’s too careful placidity. Raphael only smiles, patting her shoulder companionably like an old friend, congenial and unassuming.  
  
“That was a scary thing that happened. Lorenz and Hilda were saying you almost died,” Raphael says and from anyone else, Byleth would bristle but there is a certain clarity to the way Raphael speaks. A man incapable of holding any sort of judgment in the form of heavy disapproval or suffocating concern. Too light-hearted and brimming with sincere, uncontested care. It’s difficult for her to summon an appropriate reaction, “And Professor Bylead too. When he woke up, he wouldn’t leave your side. Like my little sis when my parents died. Our little siblings have a lot to worry about with us.”  
  
_“Bylead does not,”_ Byleth cannot make herself speak the lie and from the twinkle in Raphael’s eyes, she swears he’s heard her.  
  
He laughs uproariously, too loud for such a small room, but it’s nice and oddly comforting regardless, “Man, I thought mercenaries have no responsibilities and no one else to worry about but that’s not true at all. Your brother’s got a lot more to worry about and you got a lot more responsibility, right, Professor? It’s real impressive of you to focus on both fighting and making sure Professor Bylead’s safe.”  
  
He sits on the edge of the bed and it creaks under him, “Anyone else would call it a burden or a challenge, but you get it, Professor. Our little siblings won’t survive without us to look after them, right?”  
  
Raphael beams when Byleth nods immediately.  
  
“Yeah, and if our siblings are happy, then we’re happy!”  
  
Another nod.  
  
“So we gotta keep ‘em smiling right? And the only way to do that is to keep on living for ‘em!”  
  
Byleth blinks at him. Uncomprehending.  
  
“Right?” Raphael presses and she feels as if she should protest. Or say something. But her thoughts stutter. Confused and running over each other.  
  
“We gotta do that for them ‘cause we’re older, right? So we gotta be more careful when we do things. I’m not the smartest and all the book learning and planning you do makes me tired. But I gotta do it because I gotta be the one watching out as the oldest,” Raphael says, reaching over to jostle her hair, “If I just disappeared, how would my sister survive? So I gotta be real careful and I gotta get real strong. And be a proper knight! So I’ve been studying these last couple days. Can’t wait to show you what I’ve learned. And you too right? Got a new strategy in case this happens again? We can run through it together. We can practice! Make sure this doesn’t happen again!”  
  
Byleth’s expressions have never been the most pliable, often refusing to bow to her emotions, but she feels her breath catch in her throat, unable to do anything more than stare in stupefied silence. She hadn’t been that careless. And chides herself for the lie. The roil of thoughts swept away suddenly when Raphael ruffles her hair.  
  
“Raphael,” Byleth snaps but finds herself unable to swat at his arms. Feeling too unfocused, floating on unfamiliar terrain. She nods back at him when she meets his eyes, unable to resist his earnest attention and honest ebullience, “Thanks.”  
  
“Alright!” Raphael shouts, dragging the word out as he jumps up off the bed, flexing his arms. The buttons on his shirt cling a little tighter, desperate to stay in their loops, “I’m gonna keep trying to do my best then until you’re up for joining me again. Training time. I gotta get strong enough to take down fifteen people myself. C’mon Leonie! We can tell Professor Bylead and Captain Jeralt on the way to the training grounds the Professor woke up! They’re going to be so happy!”  
  
Leonie nods, scrambling off the bed to go after him. She pauses once at the door, frowning at Byleth, bravado wavering a little to reveal trepidation, “Raphael said all I wanted to say. So I’m gonna leave you to stew on it. I should’ve known something was up when you suggested our last lesson. I won’t ask what you two were looking for when you wound up where you did - don’t think you’ll tell me anyways. But Captain Jeralt taught me too. And he always said that you can’t just let yourself be found dead. You gotta have backups and contingencies.”  
  
Leonie points two fingers at her eyes and then points them at Byleth, “I got my eyes on you, Professor, in case you get another dumb idea and go off disappearing like that again. I’m going to be real mad if you give Captain Jeralt a heart attack again.”  
  
And with that, disappears down the hall, leaving Byleth and Claude in the room alone.  
  
“Claude,” Byleth says, “I apologize for my carelessness.”  
  
He leans back in his seat, affecting ease as he says, “Nah. It wasn’t very subtle of me to flat out ask if Jeritza was lying to us. Definitely not my best scheme. A few seconds longer, we could have gotten to a better vantage point. Having one front-liner swarmed is a death sentence. So sorry too.”  
  
Flippantly said were it not for subtle way his eyes darken. Nearly missed because in the next second, he’s smiling loosely at her again.  
  
“They would have come regardless,” Byleth says, “He had too many lurking in the shadows to not have expected a fight.”  
  
“A mistake we won’t make next time.”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
And his smile grows slightly more genuine. Softer.  
  
He opens his mouth to say something else but Byleth cuts him off.  
  
“I’m glad we agree, but if you’re going to add to the lecture I’ve already received, I’m going to insist you leave,” Byleth says.  
  
He mimes twisting his mouth closed.  
  
“That won’t last,” Byleth mutters, picking at the bandages on her hands.  
  
The wrapping is a touch dramatic for what she finds. Her ring and pinky finger on her sword hand is broken and both palms carry punctures and cuts from gripping the hilt of a blade too harshly. Claude makes a soft tutting noise at her as she displaces the splint on her fingers in her exploration.  
  
“No lectures from me, Teach. Call it even for my missed classes,” he says as he goes to fetch a kit, making himself well at home in someone else’s room. A person accustomed to carving out space for himself.  
  
He lays out the medical supplies over her lap, adeptly picking through the contents before focusing on her hands again. The song he hums under his breath as he works is familiar but only faintly so. Something she’d heard at a tavern or from one of their mercenaries. She doesn’t examine it too closely, just lets him turn her hands this way and that.  
  
She goes searching for her other injuries in the meantime. Finds burns on her shoulders and upper arms. Bruises on her chest and stomach. A too sensitive bump on her head and a series of bandages around her torso that keep her from taking a strong breath.  
  
“Manuela says another few weeks for the broken fingers and the cracked ribs. Shorter if you’re good and show up for daily checkups and nice doses of Heals,” Claude says as he examines her nails and files down a few jagged ends before reapplying splints to her pinky and ring finger, “Going to have to forego our usual class sessions with the Blue Lions for now.”  
  
“Unlikely.”  
  
Claude chuckles, “I guess a few cracked ribs and broken fingers wouldn’t be enough of a handicap for you anyways.”  
  
He laughs at her nod, “But here I was hoping I’d get a chance to make up your last lesson after all, Teach,”  
  
His eyes slant to her nightstand and she follows. Sees the Sword of the Creator propped up against the wall beside it. It’s as ugly as it was back in the Mausoleum. Like a thin strip of bone worn bare. The faintest shadow of her dream touches the corner of her mind, cold sweeping over her again.  
  
“I think we’ve only scratched at the surface of this mystery don’t you think?” he asks, his eyes intent, “I went looking for a relic weapon and lo and behold, there it was. Falling neatly into the hands of the one person who can use it. Funny how life just falls perfectly into place like that isn’t it?”  
  
“Must be fate,” Byleth deadpans.  
  
“Rhea seems to think so. Came in a few times when Jeralt wasn’t here and gave the Sword to you actually. She’s also looking for the perpetrators now. But Jeritza’s vanished completely. The background he’d given so far had no leads.”  
  
“And the mages with him?”  
  
Claude smiles as if she’d asked the right question, his finger tracing words in her palm  
  
“Nothing Rhea would tell me,” he says as he scribbles the words ‘Western Church’ into her skin. He grins at her, suddenly flirtatious, “But no need to fear, we have you by our side after all. Dually blessed with both the Sword and Crest of Flames.”  
  
Byleth looks at the blade again and decides that she really hates it. The emotion settling firmly in her chest, refusing to budge. Something about the construction and hideous shape of it seemed to radiate malice and ill will. Their mission in Remire before meeting the students had led them to cursed swords but the Cursed Ashiya Sword hadn’t pulsed so thickly with hunger.  
  
She can clearly recall the power the Sword of the Creator had pulled from her. Like sticking her hand in flames and then swinging with the entire bonfire. It had called to her, singing sweetly like a siren’s song and she had felt the threat of it press in just as quickly.  
  
Or had that been the mysterious Crest that’d appeared?  
  
Byleth flexes her unbroken hand. Tries to summon it again and fails.  
  
As expected, Claude zeroes in on the gesture immediately. Interest as sharp and precise as one of his arrows.  
  
“Never had the Crest appear before, have you?” he guesses and beams widely when she nods, “And yet you can manage the Sword … will it only appear if you swing it? Does that mean it’ll appear if I were to swing it?”  
  
“Take it then.”  
  
Byleth doesn’t miss the way his eyes glitter with both interest and surprise.  
  
“Alas, the stories have already proven me wrong. No one since Nemesis has been able to wield it. It’ll just be a heavy blade in my hands,” he says, waving her off. Too naturally suspicious to accept something openly offered, “But you, Teach, are something else.”  
  
Gaze unwavering as he looks at her, brimming with bold fascination. Gently, he brushes his fingertips over the still healing cuts on her palm and then closes the three unbroken fingers of her hand. Presses his own over hers, squeezing and it feels as if he’s about to coax her off a cliff with him. Gaze begging for her trust but words too heavy with open want, “A mystery, Teach.”  
  
She lets her eyes flick to his throat. Thinks she’d let him seize it if she asked but only on his own terms. A boy too greedy and clever for his own good.  
  
“Won’t you walk side by side with me, Teach?” he says in a purr, “Who knows what we’d be capable of together. You with your sword in hand, swinging your way through the world. Leveling mountains. Cutting the sky. Making dreams come true.”  
  
“Ha, and you?”  
  
“Standing beside you and marveling?”  
  
“I don’t babysit brats,” Byleth flicks his chin, amused when he sputters, “You want my sword or my skill, you’ll have to impress me or figure out how to catch up to me yourself.”  
  
He laughs at that, delight flaring in him and in the sunlight he truly is a golden boy, brimming with confidence and easy joy, “And people say I’m too bold with my words. Just you wait, Teach. I’ll show you a dream worth following.”  
  
Byleth says nothing, waving away the promise. Still too light and empty. Words too unfocused to have any real meaning. Yet.  
  
She holds up her hand for him and obligingly he goes back to redressing her injuries until Jeralt and Bylead come to find her.


	12. White Clouds: Sins of the Parent

> 15th Garland Moon 1160
> 
> Byleth fell ill last night.
> 
> Because I’m the World’s Greatest Fool.
> 
> I kept her brother in her crib despite the fact that his fever made his body a live coal. Took comfort in the fact that, as ever, Byleth’s simple presence gentled his temperature and opened his lungs to air instead of a hacking cough. 
> 
> I should have known better. 
> 
> The doctors told me to be cautious of spreading the boy’s illness. 
> 
> But I ignored them thinking they didn’t know my children as I do. 
> 
> They do not know the boy picks up colds and coughs constantly, cycling from one illness to another the same way those noble brats back at the monastery cycled through the latest trends. Welcomes disease into his body like some congenial innkeep too pleasant to kick them out for raging havoc.
> 
> They never saw the way Byleth soothes all those ills with nothing more than a singular touch. As if she shares some pulse of life with her brother. She looks at him with a strange gaze, old and ancient, whenever they share the crib. Reaches out for him each time he coughs sickly in my arms as if she knows something I do not. When he’s next to her, Bylead is silent as she is. 
> 
> Like twin dolls.
> 
> Artfully constructed.
> 
> But with Byleth ill (without her to share whatever she had) her brother had followed suit and turned for the worst. Shivering besides her, face and neck flushed a bright red. Little face crumbled in desperate need of relief. In stark contrast to his sister, who is still and silent as ever. Staring blankly up at the ceiling as if she did not feel the disease slip fire in her blood. As if she did not feel the soreness and discomfort brought about by fever. 
> 
> “They may not live through the night,” the doctor had said.
> 
> Like some twisted celestial joke. That they are to be born together and so they are to die together. Betrayed by their failure of a parent. 
> 
> _The next five pages are torn. A few tattered corners with stray scribbles left in that are difficult to make out over the blots of ink._

* * *

“They said they discovered a Hero’s Relic but it was taken by the Church. That a pair of twins came upon them like demons,” the messenger is a young boy, freckle faced and slender. His dark brows draw together in concern. Too young. A face too full of weaknesses. Holding too much emotion. 

Christophe in his youth. Back when he was a squire still, full of too much concern for others and never enough for himself.

“The sister was able to wield it and those from the Western Church lost a great many men before her.”

Bad news. 

But moreso for others. Lonato can feel them in the room with him. The weight of his chambers changing with their presence. Can smell metal and hostility like rotten meat in the corner, lurking in the shadows. 

Rising to a stand, Lonato sets a hand on the messenger’s shoulder. Remembering a time when he’d done the same for Christophe during his graduation at the Officer’s Academy.

It’s not a difficulty to summon a smile, congenial and warm. Christophe’s face overlapping with the boy’s. Lonato’s eldest always stood so close, at the very forefront of his mind, always a call away in a way Christophe had never been while alive.

“Thank you for this,” Lonato says, “Tell the Captain to move forward with our preparations. If their sights rest only on the Western Church then this is a good opportunity for us. We are already determined to face one wielder of a Hero’s Relic. Unholy creatures tainting a Goddess’ gift. We will not tolerate their vile presence any longer. Steady your heart. We are all prepared for this day.”

The boy nods, his concern leaving him as he bows and leaves the room.

“No sympathy for the men and women steadying themselves to die for you?” the Flame Emperor glides smoothly into the room. The shadows peeling off their armor like molted skin, “Truly a Knight of Faerghus.”

“If you’ve come to test my conviction you’ve made a long journey for nothing,” Lonato sneers, “The men and women of Faerghus are not so easily deterred. That vile witch and the heretics that follow her will be felled by my hand.” 

The mask tilts a little sideways, considering.

“True … my doubts are foolish, indeed,” they say, “I see you still think of your son. What a terrible thing to have taken him in such a way. Framed for a crime he did not commit to shield a false goddess.”

Lonato growls. Feels the sound rumble from him unbidden. 

“Rest assured, I will carry on his will,” Lonato snarls, “I will tear the mask from that false prophet and reveal her to be the witch she is.”

The Emperor nods as if satisfied, “Very well, then allow me to lend a hand.”

From behind the Emperor comes Death. A man wearing shadows, his armor gleaming as if slick with blood, his scythe on his back looming like a guillotine. 

There’s something darkly comical about the pair of them. Makes Lonato feel as if he’s stumbled upon a crossroads. Dealing with demons for the sake of a dead son.

“The Death Knight,” the Emperor introduces and the little blurt of dark comedy within Lonato grows, spreading like a stain, “And more men coming from the Western Church, for your army. You are joined by a common cause. It would be foolish to fight separately. Think of it as a show of my faith.”

“I’ve no need for your faith. The Goddess is on our side.”

Silence and then a nod. 

“Perhaps there is some truth in that. I have been informed that Thunder Catherine, herself, will come this way as part of the investigation on the Western Church.”

Joy would be too flat of a term to describe his emotions. Lonato feels his mouth twist. Vengeance singing in his blood.

The Goddess, herself, is aligned to his cause. Has sent his son’s murderer his way, laying justice over his hands. He would rise to her cause. Would see to it that Thunder Catherine and her wicked master fell to his blade and his alone. 

For he could see his son still, on that day. 

Christophe walking up those steps with his spine straight and his eyes ahead. That scar on his cheek like a letter of betrayal, an old wound from his Academy days from when he’d shielded Catherine – no, Cassandra from an unfortunate mission. Unflinching as he approached his executioner and silent as he laid his head on the block. He’d turned the scar the other way, hidden. 

A knight through and through.

Honorable to his very last, unwilling to cast shame even on those deserving. 

Christophe had neither wailed nor screamed. Had not allowed himself to cast any accusations. Only met death without a complain. Entrenched in his cause and willing to die for it. A knight of justice as Lonato had raised him to be. 

“I’ll give my orders. We’ll ready ourselves to receive aid from the Western Church.”

* * *

“The Western Church has raised an army heading into Gaspard territory?" Rodrigue asks.

"And what of Lord Lonato?" Gilbert asks.

"He's raised no arms against them. There's rumors they may be his men."

"I see …," Rodrigue touches a hand to his forehead at the news, "I cannot say I am surprised… he was never able to forgive the lost of Christophe.”

It was different losing Glenn, who’d fought honorably for King and country. Christophe’s name had fallen into the dirt, trodden into the soil and run through and through. A traitor to his own people.

It should have been Lonato, himself, to bring Christophe in but he had refused. Willingly blinded himself to his child’s betrayal and then shamefully, left the duty of arresting Christophe to another. Even daring to bear a grudge hard enough it’d apparently turned his mind.

Rodrigue shakes his head. It was a father’s duty to settle his child’s failures and it was disheartening to think Lonato would only carry on Christophe’s.

“So this is the state of the Kingdom nowadays,” Gilbert sighs. His tea long forgotten besides him as he folds his hands together, “I pray for the day his Highness ascends to the throne so that we may have some measure of peace.”

The lines of his face go a little deeper when he looks up again. Thinking of King Lambert. He rises to his feet, hands twitching as if he intends to pick up an axe and head out, himself, to Gaspard territory, “I should return to the Church.” 

“No need to cut your visit short. We haven’t yet reached the purpose of your visit. You wished to know how your brother fare holding Dominic territory, yes?” Rodrigue says, placing a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder though he knows full well no one could stop the man if he did not wish to be. Gilbert pauses a moment, the great bulk of him stilling for a half second under Rodrigue’s touch, “I’m certain Lady Rhea will be dispatching her own Knights shortly to aid. From his Highness’ letters, Captain Jeralt has returned to his post and Cassandra is headed for the Kingdom once more as part of the Knights of Seiros. There’s no need for you to go as well for a small rebellion.”

Gilbert shakes his head, “I will not feel comfortable so far away from his Highness’ side in such times of turmoil. I failed to fulfill my duty once before. My absence from Duscar hangs over my head still. I will not make the same mistake again.”

A sentiment Rodrigue could understand. Sorrow and regret hung over his shoulders like a weight. Heavy as the tombstone that bore Lambert’s name. His absence from Duscar was an indelible mark against his very soul, never to be washed clean.

_“Die then if you’re going to drown yourself in regret,” Felix snarls at him, “And perhaps you can apologize to Glenn there.”_

Rodrigue tenses at the memory, the taste of it acidic in his mouth. He can remember the day Glenn had been brought home. His face had been nearly unrecognizable and his hands were curled inward, burned into a grip around his lance. Broken in body but not mind. Glenn had done the right thing but not in Felix’s mind. 

His youngest was untethered, too young to understand what to do with sorrow and too easily turned away from duty. 

Rodrigue shakes himself. 

“There’s more. Bandits have been spotted in Fraldarius and Gautier territory,” the messenger adds quickly as if sensing a dismissal, “They appear in groups, raiding villages across the Kingdom. Their numbers are small but there’s an organization to the raids that hasn’t been seen before. They start with one village and when the knights are sent, another group begins their own attack on the other side of our territory.”

Gilbert makes a noise in the back of his throat, wounded, “When it rains it pours. His Majesty would have despaired to see such scenes.”

In another life, in another world, Lambert would have ridden out to meet these bandits himself with his sword and shield, Fraldarius and Gautier riding side by side with him. Moving across the land like a great wave. Smoothing out rebellion and meting out order. Gentling the flames of turmoil across the land and ushering in peace. Rodrigue would have followed his king anywhere. Can imagine a time where he walked the land with his king before him and his son behind. In those lifetimes, Felix was always a step behind as well, dutifully besides his brother in Dimitri’s escort. 

“My friend,” Rodrigue says quietly to Gilbert, because in this world he has no King and no peace. Nothing but an estranged son and dwindling troops, “I could use your aid.”

“I should be at his Highness’ side…” but Rodrigue can see him faltering. Knows personally how closely Gilbert had held Lambert’s dreams of peace. 

“Perhaps you can. His Highness said the Blue Lions have just returned from their first mission against some bandits. Perhaps they can offer us the same assistance now. It will be good for those in the Kingdom to see Prince Dimitri on the front lines. And this time, we will both be by his side.”

“I see…” Gilbert says after a long moment, “Wery well. I will impose on you for a little longer then.”

Rodrigue smiles wryly, “Such a burden to have your axe by my side, Gustave.”

“Please … Gilbert,” the older man’s face twists at the old name and Rodrigue only nods.

If Glenn had lived, no doubt he would have carried the same guilt and regret until it broke him. Had it worn away at him, heart and soul, until he shattered, no more than a husk of the man he was meant to be. The thought hurt more than the memory of Glenn brought home from Duscar.

“Bring the message directly to Felix as well,” Rodrigue tells the messenger, bracing himself to give the order, “Instruct him to come home. It’s about time he learned to carry out his duties.”

_As Glenn would have,_ goes unspoken.

* * *

Rhea exists in two places.

Here.

“I am only going to town, brother. You worry far too much. There is nothing to be concerned with. And nothing for you to fret over!”

And in the past.

_“Meddlesome as ever, eh, Cichol? Indech will never learn the art of conversation if you constantly speak for him at the markets,” Macuil laughs, his face and smile untouched by warfare, ebullient and free. _

_Indech ducks his head. Mutters a low insult at his brother, as sharp as his many arrows. Something pitched under his breath lest their mother hear. But she is their mother and none of them are capable of ducking her eyes and ears. _

_Seiros sighs, shaking her head at her siblings as Sothis grabs for their ears, tugging harshly enough they both squeal with complaints._

_On the grounds outside, Seiros can hear the others. Joyous laugher echoing in the canyons followed by the patter of little feet. Every now and again a rush of wings from the few learning to fly. _

_“Seiros,” her mother is speaking and as the eldest it is not in her to disregard._

_Rhea turns to face her and finds she cannot. Keeps trying to turn, but her mother moves just beyond her, caught in Rhea’s periphery, allowing only the barest glimpse of a gentle smile and warm eyes._

So frustratingly close and yet –

“Rhea.”

She lifts her head from her hand. Blinks at <strike>Cichol</strike> Seteth. His face is stern and drawn, a smear of melancholy over him, speaking of a battle lost. Flayn is absent from the room, leaving behind a tension Seteth bore poorly. His eyebrows are creased, arms crossed and fingers tapping restlessly against his upper arms. It’s an expression Rhea knows well. Seteth caught in the memories of a wife he could no longer see. 

With bitter humor, Rhea wonders if perhaps sorrow is contagious.

“Yes, Seteth?” she asks, forcing a smile to her face. The years as Archbishop have made the movement easy, just a little tilt of the eyes and lift of the lips. Affecting a serenity she did not truly feel.

Her words draw them both back, cement them both in the moment and Seteth sighs, visibly shaking himself to fit the role of advisor once more. 

“This is the third time today, you’ve fallen asleep at your desk. Is it not sufficient to leave it to the Knights of Seiros to track down our intruders?” he asks.

In another time Rhea would tease him for this, remind him of just how well his meddling and fretful mannerisms had been taken just seconds ago. 

And his wife would laugh at them from the sidelines as Rhea touched a finger to the crease between his brows. Macuil would as well, join in as loudly and abrasively as ever while Indech would roll his eyes and utter something too cruel for a moment so lighthearted, always so incredibly incapable of social niceties. And mother … she would –

“We must strive to keep ahead of our enemies,” Rhea says, “We may have names and houses of the ones in the Mausoleum but we have no leader yet. I will not be caught unawares again.”

Her last statement is a touch too close to their hearts and she sees Seteth flinch, a shared memory spinning out between them. Of the bright summers and crisp winters in Zanado. Of a home they both still longed for and a mother stolen.

“We both know who the leader is,” Seteth says, voice harsh, “The Agarthans have never been one for subtlety.” 

Rhea inclines her head in acknowledgement, biting her lip against the fresh rush of grief. The memories linger too close today. Aching like a battle wound. 

“It seems they’ve since learned. We have heard no whisper nor caught a single glimpse. No face to hold up against them. I have only a few theories but nothing more.”

Seteth utters a sigh again, the sound fraught with pain. Her youngest brother should not look so aged, “Seiros, will this never end?”

It would have ended forty years ago if she had succeeded. 

Rhea bites the words back. Knows they will be too angry and bitter, to allow. Knows that Seteth would never forgive her for what she has done to bring their mother back but also knows that he would understand and hate himself for it. 

“I’m sparing every effort to ensure that it will,” Rhea says and winces at how harsh she sounds, thinking to apologize. But they’ve been Archbishop and advisor for a long time and siblings longer still. 

Seteth waves away the venom in her words effortlessly, taking her hand and guiding her up, “I did not mean for you alone to take responsibility. Come, have tea with me. You can allow yourself a few hours at the very least.”

The memories tug at her harder when she stands. Seeking to bend her joints and muddy her feet, begging her to stay. To sit and allow herself to drown in them.

“Tea will help stave off sleep for a few moments longer,” Rhea says, leaning into her brother, allowing him to take some of her weight as he walks her to her room. He says nothing but she can sense he disagrees. Standing this close, she can remember him as a child, clutching an armload of books as he debated the morals from his latest fable. She makes herself smile around the pang in her heart, turning the conversation to something easier, “We can talk about our monthly spendings. I’m certain we will need at least a few more weapons for Blaiddyd’s scion.”

A casual hum with no hint of a promise as Seteth guides her down the halls. 

Passing the balcony she can see Jeralt and his children. Twins bracketing their father, walking side by side. She can see Bylead a step behind as they make their way across the grounds while Byleth stands further to the side. Her form stern, exuding protectiveness, her arm propped against the hilt of a new iron sword. The Sword of the Creator on her back. She moves as if a guardian for her family. 

A mother’s care if it was created in warfare instead of peace.

Rhea wonders if Sothis would have looked the same if they had never had Zanado. If they had been forged in fire and battle to begin with and if Sothis had been general instead of mother. 

Rhea swallows thickly around the pain in her chest. Perhaps she would have sisters still instead of lost brothers drowned in their own grief. 

Sothis had held them so tightly together and taught them only joy. Left them unprepared and unaccustomed to sadness and unable to move on from it. 

Rhea thinks a part of her hates her mother for that. For allowing them to be so terribly naive and foolishly guided by peace. Hates her even more for leaving them all behind so utterly. For dying in the dead of night and allowing them to discover her. Gone like the change of a season, heedless of their emotions, utterly uncaring about the fact that they were all entirely unprepared to live without her yet.

“Rhea!” Shamir marches up to them. Her words are clipped and to the point, not the sort to waste breath with greetings, “The Western Church has joined up with a rebellion in Gaspard territory. Led by Lord Lonato and a man they’re calling the Death Knight. Catherine’s still there, awaiting your orders.”

Rhea only nods, pulling away from her brother. 

Zanado is long past. Times of peace are always so flimsy and she is no longer the child she once was. 

No longer Seiros but Rhea, forged from war and hatred, in the blood of so many brother’s and sisters, formed by sorrow. Her eyes drift to the Sword of the Creator again, the hole in the center like a beacon, calling her to arms. 

“Gather the Knights of Seiros. We will go to meet our enemies.” 

* * *

“It’s not the first time I’ve stood a battlefield with injuries,” Byleth shrugs, “And they will be healed by the time we march.”

Her brother frets in silence by her side, staring at the orders as if he can set it alight with his eyes.

“Rhea wants the Golden Deer to join up with Catherine when we go to Gaspard,” Jeralt sighs, “It’s not difficult to understand she wants two wielders of a Hero’s Relic carrying out the Church’s justice. Unlikely you and the students will see much of a fight anyways. That will fall to the Knights of Seiros.”

“That’s fine.”

An unexpected acceptance. Byleth did not fight in the backlines. Jeralt exchanges a look with his son. 

“What’re you after, kid?” Jeralt growls, suddenly alert, “Don’t think I don’t notice those Deer of yours running around the Church as if they’re trying to dig something up. Especially that house leader of yours. He’s been ducking the Church’s eyes but not mine. You were searching for something in the Mausoleum, weren’t you?”

“What’re you hiding from me?” Bylead adds, his words bit out like an accusation, something low and full of barbs. Byleth’s eyes flash, a dim flicker of irritation over her.

“I could ask you the same.”

The two stare at each other, a month’s worth of conversation in their gaze. Bylead’s expression stubborn and set. Byleth’s prying and sharp. 

“Kids…” Jeralt’s not used to playing peacemaker between his children. Even as children when they should have fought over toys or when they were teenagers and should have fought over space. There was nothing but those long stares where they argued solely in the unspoken words, lasting no more than seconds. Well before Jeralt had ever had to step in. 

“There was a moment in the last battle when I grabbed the Sword … I saw you do something,” Byleth says, heated, fingers curling as if she can physically pry the secrets from her brother. 

And Bylead, ever incapable to hide from his sister – 

“I turned back time,” impossible words spoken with senseless ease.

“What.”

Because that wasn’t a lie. Jeralt’s son did not lie so blatantly, nor did he lie so easily. He also does not lie to his sister. He stares openly back at her disbelief, face clear as he speaks the words. 

It’s about enough for Jeralt for the day, but the world is not through straining on his sanity. His children pour secrets out between them and they land at his feet like the sputtering flames at Ailell. 

Sothis.

The Crest of Flames.

The Sword of the Creator.

The Western Church. 

And those damning dreams.

Some part of him aches to laugh it all off as a joke but ultimately knowing the sound would be terrible if he tried. Hysterical and high, on the verge of shattering. The laughter creeps up the back of his throat in a rush and he blocks it stubbornly off. Makes himself take a breath before looking at his children again, pretending his hands don’t tremble as he laces his fingers together. 

“Kids, that is … a lot to spring on your father,” he says, slowly, feeling as if he were in freefall. 

An accusation burns in his mind like a brand, of Rhea’s involvement and his wife’s death. Knows personally how bloody Rhea’s hands could be. Has witnessed himself among others shaped into impossibilities under her touch. The thought of her hands on his infants, her smile as she reaches into their cribs – 

It’s a struggle to keep his thoughts from his face. 

Thankfully, Byleth is preoccupied with other things. She glances at her brother, on the bed beside her, mouth twisting in annoyance. 

“And on each other. You did not tell me about those new abilities of yours.”

Her concern palpable in the air between them though it doesn’t appear as blatantly on her face, “You should be careful not to overuse things that don’t belong to you. Is that why you went down before?”

Bylead looks steadily back. Stubbornness in the set of his jaw and the faint tilt of his brows, “It was necessary."

And they all understand from that alone, that Byleth had died. 

_“How many times?”_ the question trembles on Jeralt’s lips, falling to pieces because he can see a glimmer of weary tension and tense fear in his son’s eyes. His own heart clenching tight as if tied in thorns at the mere thought, skin prickling with cold sweat. He can see the twins in their little crib again, his son uttering a fading cry, falling away as his sister starts to go still, her breath slowing. 

Jeralt blinks away the thick crush of panic in his throat, smothers it within him because it would not do to fall apart in front of his children. 

He sees Byleth blink in surprise. Sees anger come next, closing over her like a shroud. Sees her turn it inward, at herself, and her eyes go cold and distant.

“And? If I should fall then your job is to run over me,” Byleth says, “It’s an utter waste for us both to die.”

Bylead's face clouds. Storm clouds obscuring the sky. Threatening rain.

Regret washes over Jeralt in a great wave, bends his spine and makes him drop his head over his knees. 

An old memory tugs at him. 

Of Byleth turning a sword in her hand, light and nimble, practically untouchable on her first battlefield, taking a man’s head with one artful swing and a demon’s nonchalance. Of her turning to face Jeralt after, her expression coolly placid, eyes flicking once to Bylead and the faint tremble in his hands, and then back up to Jeralt. A stern resolution had come over her that he understood down to his bones. An oath made in her heart, tethering her very being.

“Look after your brother,” he’d said to her then and then repeated the order like a mantra. Circled it around her head and wore it on her skin. Chains on his own daughter.

“Make your choice, kid,” he’d told his son so many days before. Burned like a brand. Spurring his son to match his daughter. 

Damning his children to run ahead towards death.

Jeralt scrubs a hand over his face. Feels so old in Bylead’s too small room. The familiar scent and shape of Garreg Mach looms around him, an old haunt for a decrepit old man long past his expiration date. Clinging to life with senseless ferocity. Too feeble to do anything for his children but too stubborn to die. 

The memory of his wife’s face blurs in front of his eyes and in the space of one breath and the next he is no longer in Bylead’s room but outside the infirmary again. 

_“She died in childbirth,” Rhea says, handing him two children, her eyes downcast with an Archbishop’s despair. A distant grief crafted out of duty. She looks at the boy, touches a finger to his little cheek and he scuffles and flinches from her, takes a rattling breath that sounds like a man’s last. Rhea’s face doesn’t flicker, so carefully precise in her grief. She touches the girl next, pokes her little nose and affects a small smile, a little too radiant for Jeralt who’s world is crumbling to pieces before him. _

_“She begged me to save the children. To hold their little lives above hers.”_

Another blink and he is facing Rhea again. Twenty years older. Meaningless time between people like them. His son and daughter in the hall outside her chambers. Just the flimsy cover of her doors keeping them from her and from the smile in her voice and eyes it is a protection thin as insect wings. 

_“She would be so sad to see them now, as mercenaries, wouldn’t she, Jeralt?”_

Jeralt feels the grind of his teeth as if digging up dirt with his canines.

“Enough,” he growls, uncertain who he is aiming those words at.

He sees both Byleth and Bylead startle, unaccustomed to the tone of his voice aimed at them. He rises slowly, feeling each pull and strain on his joints and squares his shoulders, shaking the memories. Shapes himself as leader and Captain again. 

“I’ll go digging for those answers you seek.”

Byleth says nothing. Her eyes hard as she stares at Jeralt. Bylead’s eyes dart between them both. A question in them Jeralt does not answer. 

Instead, he holds his children in front of him and aims his next words low, “You need to keep an eye on each other. Like I always told you to. I won’t have either of you go down like that again. Stay up. Keep each other up. Wait for my orders.”

The words are hard, angled like a weapon. 

And Jeralt already knows they will relent, no matter their disagreements, because that was how he had raised them. Tethered the two together so tightly they could be stilled and moved by simply mentioning the other. He grits his teeth against his own guilt, aching to turn the hands of time back, himself, to their first battle when he’d damned them all.

“Okay,” they say in one voice. 

Jeralt makes himself be satisfied with that.

* * *

“Don’t worry about it,” Ashe is saying, laughing as he tugs at Dedue’s arm sleeves. The sound is off. Too false. As if it wants to stick in Ashe’s throat, a clumsy square block meant to be trapped there. 

Bylead feels his sister bristle besides him, reminded of late night bar fights and the occasional alley fight. He tugs lightly at her jacket sleeve but she ignores him, her eyes on the group of gossiping children before Ashe and Dedue. Her stoic expression going cold at the self-righteous arrogance surrounding the Blue Lions. The words are low enough not to cause a scene but antagonistic enough Bylead can feel the weight of them.

It’s not a new scene for Dedue. Bylead can recall catching glimpses of these moments in passing. Dimitri always came to Dedue’s aid well before Bylead had ever needed to step in but the prince is nowhere in sight now. And Dedue reacts as he always does, drawing himself up, bracing himself to bear the brunt of their words as if holding still and silent would allow others to pass by him unseeing. 

Placating, Ashe raises a hand, flashing them a little smile that does not reach his eyes. 

Reminds Bylead of the smiles Claude wears, cold and tempered. Unless he’s by Byleth’s side, of course. The young lord leans over Byleth’s shoulder now, making tutting sound at the scene unfolding before them. A too easy familiarity Bylead had not expected his sister to put up with.

“Yeesh, you really see these things everywhere,” Claude mutters and Bylead doesn’t like the way he tilts his eyes towards Byleth, something knowing in them as he watches Byleth’s expression.

As if he, too, can read the irritation in her face and the steady annoyance that she’d carried since they’d last spoken to their father. He angles himself as if to pry, to speak more on Byleth’s thoughts but he’s cut off. 

“Bunch of traitors rallying together,” someone says.

“Wow, that’s – hey, Teach, wait. What’re you–?” Claude stammers, toppling forward a little as Byleth strides out of his reach.

Bylead gets a pinch on Byleth’s jacket sleeve, tugging lightly in warning as she passes but that’s enough. He catches the side of her face. Sees her expression go from damning to only hateful as she closes the few steps between them and the students. Artlessly, she slams her shoulder into the last speaker. Hard enough he topples to the ground with a graceless thud that makes both Ashe and Dedue startle. 

_“Oh, my,”_ Sothis gasps but Bylead can tell she only means half of her concern. She hovers over the student on the ground, looking down her nose at him at Byleth’s side, _“Well, I can’t say he didn’t have it coming to him.”_

Bylead tries not to sigh as he approaches as well. Lending his own unnerving gaze to Byleth’s. Not that she needs it.

Byleth tilts her head at the student when he sputters at her, eyes full of derision and feigned surprise, as if she truly cannot comprehend how he came to appear before her but was unfathomably irked by the sight of him. 

“Professor Byleth,” Ashe croaks out, expression stunned. 

“Move,” Byleth says at the boy beneath her, the word harsh enough to have been spat. Expression stone still but frigid as she stares the boy down. Unleashing every piece of her irritation festering and left over from their last conversation with father. The student’s eyes drop to her sword arm, eyes the way her fingers tease over the hilt of her sword and swallows. 

A noble prat unaccustomed to a mercenary’s ruthlessness.

“You’re in my way,” Byleth says and goes to step forward as if she means to step on and over him. Her expression goes still colder, the blue in her eyes like frosted glass. As if she were on a battlefield, seconds from cutting someone in half.

Hurriedly, the boy scrambles away just in time, rushing away with the rest of his friends.

“Well, that was effective,” Claude whistles, “Not going to lie, I thought you were going to whap them on the head with your sword. Er … or you still might.”

Claude waves a hand over Byleth’s face that she doesn’t acknowledge. Her eyes follow the students out and Bylead tugs at her. Willing her down.

“Thanks, Professor,” Ashe says.

“For what? I don’t recall doing you any favors.”

“Byleth,” Bylead presses a reprimand in her name and she eyes him for a moment. 

He can see her shift, trying to decide whether or not to spark an argument and ultimately not. With a wordless sigh, she turns away from them.

“I’m going to the training grounds.”

Predictably her house leader follows her, smiling just as easily as he runs to catch up to her.

“Is… Professor Byleth alright?” Ashe asks.

“Just a bit impatient,” Bylead explains, “Awaiting father’s orders for next month’s mission.”

He doesn’t explain that Byleth cannot bear sitting still. As if she were wound like a toy and would die the moment she stopped moving. That she hated being left behind most of all. Hated feeling slow and untethered with no focus to cling to. Always so accustomed to walking by Jeralt’s side, at the very forefront of any fight, leaving Bylead staring at their backs. 

_“If I had children, I would do my level best to keep them from warfare,”_ Sothis says suddenly and it sounds like an accusation. One Bylead does not get to argue because Ashe slumps in front of them, shoulders made heavy by his father’s actions. 

Ashe hangs his head, “I have to apologize… I never thought Lord Lonato would do this.”

“He said nothing of his plans to you, Ashe,” Dedue says, “You should not bear the weight of this guilt.”

“But, he is my father. He was never able to forgive Christophe’s death,” Ashe’s green eyes go murky and he blinks back tears, “I should have… maybe if I had done something, said something, I could have stopped him.”

_“You’ve no need to apologize for your father. The fault is his alone,”_ Sothis huffs angrily. Her hand goes through his grey hair when she tries to pat him. 

Bylead relays her words for her and though she flashes him a grateful look, Ashe only curls in on himself further. 

“No … but I knew something was wrong. When Christophe died, Lord Lonato was never the same. He stopped taking meals with us. Didn’t smile as easily. And though I noticed it all, I did nothing to help him.”

Bylead swallows down the pang of sympathy, recalling long nights when his father drank alone. 

On his and Byleth’s birthdays or more accurately, on mother’s anniversary. 

_Moonlight drapes over Jeralt’s face, painting him in shades of blue. A painting of melancholy with the hues to match. He stares out into the courtyards. Eyes focused solely on something Bylead cannot see. Lost in something Bylead could not personally understand. The heaviness of the air was stifling, a physical weight that draw around Jeralt and kept him far away. _

_As if nothing existed for Jeralt in those moments. Not the lance beside him nor his children behind him._

_Bylead had sat there for a long time, waiting for his father to turn around. To remember them. And then Byleth had awoken. Taken one look at Bylead and then stormed ahead, slotting herself by their father’s side. _

_Leaving Bylead to be solely forgotten in the background. _

Sothis makes a noise, _“Foolish. Humans are always so foolish. So eager to discard all precious to them though they stand right in front of them. I cannot bear the thought of being driven by such grief and need for vengeance. And then to inflict on your children. This is … “_

She growls, low and angry, frustrated but uncertain where to turn it, _“I would think to spare my children all of this.”_

She folds her arms and looks away. Her gaze going distant. He can feel a faint thrum of what he’d felt in Zanado. Something hauntingly wistful, teetering on the cusp of pain.

It leaves Bylead feeling chastised and a part of him wants to argue. Wants to protest on his father’s behalf.

“Ashe,” Bylead says, instead, focusing back on the present as he offers Ashe a hand, “I need your help with something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we get to Mutiny in the Mist. What was chapter 3 in game only starts chapter 12 here. Ahaha ಥ‿ಥ
> 
> Softer chapter next time around ... uh... maybe. Either way, more focus on the students.  
I'm very excited to get to Felix and Sylvain's characters which should be coming up around *checks notes* a thousand more chapters in ಥ‿ಥ


	13. White Clouds: The Children Left Behind

The boar is almost human today.

Walking on hind legs instead of on all fours.

Without that weary hang of animalistic hunger and squealing for death. Usually like an animal on the back of a pig cart, raised and slotted for slaughter.

Instead, he looks almost … at ease. As if someone had reached a hand over his gated pen and gentled his squalling, some kind-hearted passerby picking out the pig before it can be carted further.

A change too sudden for Felix to be comfortable with but he is not the sort to go prying for worthless answers. Especially not from the boar prince. So he spends his free day in the Knight’s Hall, focused on his new blade. Slowly and methodically cleaning out the rust. It’s not his fault the boar insists on sharing the same space along with his other childhood friends.

Ingrid is speaking to one of the many female knights behind him. Sylvain with her, speaking to another knight in an entirely different manner. The low thwap of Ingrid’s hand against the back of Sylvain’s skull resounds in the room and Felix snorts to himself.

_Justified._

And above Ingrid and Sylvain’s ensuing quarrel …

“Thank you,” Dimitri bows to the knight as he takes the whetstone.

His reflection appears on Felix’s blade, would appear more clearly once the blade was polished, but Felix could see him nonetheless. There’s a liveliness to Dimitri's face and voice instead of his typical rote politeness, almost as he cared a whit for his actions, as if he were doing something of worth instead of dredging through life, waiting for death. A smile dimples the corners of his mouth as he rubs a thumb against the rough surface of the whetstone.

“The Professor will be most pleased. He has a few too many daggers to be content with sharing a maintenance space with others.”

A chuckle, soft and fond. And a light to his eyes as he spoke. He waves off the knight’s returning bow, still smiling.

“A gift?” Ingrid asks, openly curious as she peers at the object in Dimitri’s hand.

“I would have suggested perfume,” Sylvain says.

The two of them crowd around the prince. A comical reminder of their younger days. Felix can see an empty space between Dimitri and Sylvain, as if purposefully left open for Felix to join them.

He scraps at the last remaining bit of rust a little harder than intended and then has to stop, glowering at his sword, turning it this way and that against the firelight to ensure he hadn’t left an unfixable scar.

“It’s not for a woman,” Dimitri says, exasperation and fondness in equal parts, “Do you really think I would gift a lady something like this as a courting gift?”

“It’s a step above a dagger.”

“_Really_,” embarrassed now, “You must learn to let that go, Sylvain.”

“I would be pleased to received either.”

“That’s because you’re like that, Ingrid.”

“Exactly so,” she says her tone sharpening her words. Felix hears her huff. Can imagine her fold her arms, giving a haughty shake of the head. The same movements she’d perform when they declared her the damsel to be rescued by knights in their early days.

“If someone gifted me this it would mean they are thinking of me solely,” she says, “I would be deeply pleased. Far more than if they’d gifted me something thoughtless. Like makeup. Or flowers.”

“Yikes, okay, okay, we were talking about his Highness, here,” Sylvain says.

“Don’t use me as an excuse to dodge an apology, Sylvain,” and still that note of amusement, unfiltered and unblemished.

Felix rises to a stand. His sword is fine. No marks or scars but still pitted and in dire need of a polish. It was serviceable for the moment. Good enough for a test.

Dimitri does not see him approach, still smiling as he continues, “You started this argument and clearly lost.”

“I have no friends here. Only enemies,” Sylvain shakes his head with far too much dramaticism, turning away from the group to shout after a knight, “Say, my fair lady knight, won’t you come rescue a poor gentlemen from such undeserved hatred?”

“You don’t look busy, boar prince,” Felix says, interrupting Ingrid’s muttered curse and Dimitri’s sigh, “Join me for some training.”

“Oh?” Dimitri blinks at him, blue eyes guileless, flicking once to the blade in Felix’s hand and then to his face. He does it again and it makes Felix twitch with annoyance.

“Felix…” a note of warning in Ingrid’s voice.

Combined with Sylvain’s sharp stare, Felix can feel his hackles start to rise. Cursing himself for his whimsy.

Absently, Dimitri only sets a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder, as if willing her down.

“I – of course,” Dimitri says, “And here I thought you had no desire to speak with me.”

“We don’t need to speak to clash blades,” Felix says, “I need someone for target practice. You’ll do.”

“I suppose – oh, I see, that’s a new sword. Wait! That blade–“

“Hmph, I suppose you’d recognize it’s value.”

“Forged by Zoltan,” Ingrid says, just seconds before Dimitri.

They both lean in, eyes sparkling over the sword and Felix is five again, starting his first lesson with Glenn, puffed with pride as he stood across from his brother, keenly aware of the envious stares from both Ingrid and Dimitri. Basking in their attention.

“I’m not giving it to you.”

“No - of course not!” Dimitri waves his hands, flustered.

“Allow me to swing it,” Ingrid demands.

“Ha - brazen orders from Lady Galatea.”

“Oh? And Lord Fraldarius would deny a noble lady her simple desires?” Ingrid shakes her head, feigning melancholy. Clearly spending too much time with Sylvain, “How petty.”

Sylvain snickers beside her, a helpless little laugh, too abrupt and startled to be faked. His eyes twinkle with amusement, “Yeah, _Lord_ Fraldarius, don’t be _stingy_.”

An old complaint Felix used to sling at Glenn.

“… Fine,” Felix spits, turning the full force of his glower on Sylvain who lets it roll off his shoulders like water through a sieve.

“Oh – then I too–“ Dimitri begins, practically salivating, his hands hovering scant inches from the blade.

“Not a chance. I recall you swung a sword so hard you snapped it clean in half when you were nine.”

“That was so long ago!” Dimitri says, voice high in protest, and Ingrid laughs at him, prodding a finger to his blush that he shakes off, “I am hardly the fool I was then.”

“Heh,” Felix snorts, “So you say. I won’t let you swing it but if you so desire, you can feel the bite of my blade in battle.”

Dimitri’s eyes glimmer, eager and starry-eyed, as he always was when Felix generously offered Dimitri the first bout with Glenn during their lessons.

“I - yes, of course,” he says but then looks to the whetstone in his hands, “After I deliver this. Do you mind waiting a moment?”

Felix _stares_. Unable to summon the words, either to sling them as a curse or to accept Dimitri’s deference. He looks to Ingrid and Sylvain, only slightly relieved to find an open-mouthed stare and blank surprise from them, respectively.

“It’s just – I don’t want to forget and lay it down somewhere to be forgotten,” Dimitri says, ducking his head almost bashfully, shuffling in place. There’s a blush on his cheeks at their attention, the faintest dusting of rose, as he were holding a ring instead of a whetstone.

_ “How disgusting,”_ Felix nearly snaps the words out, unable to think of anything else to say but thankfully Ingrid speaks before he does.

“Knowing the Professor, he’s likely with Professor Byleth,” Ingrid offers, still unable to tuck away her stupefied expression. Her eyes flick to the stone. And then back to Dimitri. Her lips twitch as if she’s trying to decide how to broach the subject, “I’ve never seen you turn down a spar for anything. You used to yell and protest about royal visits that would interrupt your sparring lessons.”

“Yeah, remember that princess from Almyra? Father thought you were going to start a war when you cried about meeting her,” Sylvain says, “Good thing the Almyrans have such a deep appreciation for battle.”

“I was a child!” Dimitri says hotly, blush spreading to his ears, “Obviously, I have since learned restraint. And I need to thank the Professor…for imposing on his kindness.”

Dimitri speaks slowly, a huge gap between his words, practically mumbling into his chest.

Ingrid’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline and Sylvain whistles low, the surprise in his face fading away to something easy and salacious as he grins.

“Ooh? And how so?” Sylvain asks, “Late night lessons? A private tutoring session on anatom–“

“Sylvain!” Dimitri hisses the words, the sound so strident and sibilant Felix grimaces.

The prince glances around furtively, making sure they have no eavesdroppers, and then glances to Ingrid, eyes pleading for her support. Absently, she bats at Sylvain’s head with a tenth of her usual ferocity.

“Don’t tease his Highness,” she chides by rote, her own eyes sparkling a little, “For his … appreciation…”

“Goddess,” Dimitri slaps a hand over his forehead. He never was able to stand up against Sylvain and Ingrid’s combined prying, “He assisted me with tutoring some of the orphanage children. That’s all.”

He touches a hand to his neck and then as if remembering something, goes a deeper shade of red, recoiling from them as both Sylvain and Ingrid lean in to coo at the deep color. The same brats they’ve always been at five, seven, and ten, tugging Dimitri and subsequently Felix into their plans, asking over and over until Dimitri’s resolve broke.

“I’ve had enough of this idiocy,” Felix snaps at them both, turning on his heels, “I only wanted a spar. Let’s hurry with your pointless errand. My sword rusts the longer I am still.”

“Boo!” Sylvain shouts at his back, “Felix you killjoy.”

But Felix keeps going, doesn’t have to look back to know Dimitri’s running after him, gratitude in his eyes.

“Thank–“

“Shut up.”

And Dimitri does. Takes the initiative to stride ahead, stopping passing monks and students to guess at the Professor’s location, leaving Felix scowling at his back. Some part of him wanting Dimitri to protest and rally back, comfortable and easy with him as he had been with Sylvain and Ingrid. He keeps the idiotic thought silent - far too prone to whimsy today - biting his tongue, thinking to save the irritation for their spar. 

* * *

“Haven’t seen him,” Shamir says.

“The Professor? I saw her going to the training grounds; she did not seem terribly pleased at being approached. Hm… I only meant to ask after her new Crest, purely due to academic interest, of course – oh! You mean Professor Bylead. No, haven’t seen him,” Hanneman says and then frowns down at the papers on his desk, “Bring him this way once you’re done will you?”

“Oh? Not with Professor Byleth?” Linhardt yawns, barely stopping to acknowledge them, “Good news for me. I have something ask of her.”

“I believe I saw him with Ashe, and Dedue at the cathedral earlier,” Seteth says, a frown on his face as he touches his chin, “Perhaps they went upstairs to visit Captain Jeralt?”

“My kid? Can’t say I’ve seen him. You have another favor to ask?"

"No!" Dimitri turns red again.

"Well, he’s probably sulking somewhere with a bunch of animals. I might’ve pissed them both off. Good luck with that, kid.” 

* * *

Ashe follows his Professor from cathedral to dining hall to kitchen, trying not to show the quick run of his many thoughts from alert and concerned to confused and then utterly baffled. Dedue gets the milk powder from the high shelf without complaint and Ashe sets about boiling bottles and dissolving the powder properly. They watch in silence as Bylead tests each bottle against a wrist and then practically step on his heels as he leads them both to the courtyard outside.

And then …

“I … must admit, I didn’t expect this as your favor, Professor,” Ashe is cautious with his words, trying not to offend.

Not that he thinks Bylead was the sort to be easily offended, but the sight of his Professor, a former mercenary, sitting cross-legged in front of a small milk crate containing a mother cat and her litter of five is jarring, to say the least.

“Here,” Bylead says instead of addressing Ashe’s incredulity, handing Ashe a bottle and a white kitten small enough Ashe can feel himself shaking into pieces at the thin pulse of the creature’s heart.

It looks more like a dustball than anything else, eyes barely open. Blearily, it latches onto Ashe’s fingers, suckling, and Ashe tries not to tremble too hard as he folds his hands carefully around the delicate arch of the kitten’s back. The mother cat, a pretty calico, eyes Dedue and Ashe critically before nuzzling into Bylead’s hand, dismissing the newcomers outright. She makes no move to protest when Bylead takes another kitten out of her box and hands it to Dedue. Only turns back to stare at Dedue coolly, watching as he holds a bottle to the kitten’s mouth, and laying her head down in her paws once her kitten has latched.

Ashe wonders how often their Professor does this sort of thing to have elicited such a reaction, half-hysterical with his astonishment. Slowly, he makes himself sit down beside the other two, carefully angling the bottle to his kitten’s mouth.

“Don’t tilt the bottle,” Dedue says.

“He’ll latch and start suckling on his own. If you tilt it, he’ll choke,” Bylead explains.

Ashe bobs his head in acknowledgment. Does not say that the thought is terrifying. All at once the animal in his hands feels infinitely more fragile.

“Wow,” Ashe says, peeking up at Dedue and Bylead who are utterly taken with their tasks and pay him no mind.

Their expressions as stern and stoic as ever. Unfitting a scene so sweetly tender.

Ashe stares, the absurdity of the situation bubbles in him, effervescent and light. A thought flits in his mind. Wonders if Captain Jeralt had looked just as stoic feeding his infant twins. Or if Dedue’s father had been so silent feeding him. He can’t hold back the giggle, blushing a little when they both glance at him.

“Don’t jostle him,” Bylead says, indicating the kitten with his eyes.

“N-no, of course not.”

“Hm.”

“Professor … do you do this often?”

“Sort of.”

Not an answer and for a second Bylead does not look as if he’s going to continue. But then he looks up, attention caught by something Ashe cannot see, gaze set on nothing but air. And as if he’s gained something from doing so, Bylead makes a soft noise, considering, and then elaborates, “Father always says to keep your hands busy. Especially when you don’t know what to do next. Doing this helps me think and figure it out.”

And just like that the easy laughter fades. Ashe twitches, trying not to think of Lord Lonato, but Bylead is intent on pursuing the topic.

“Byleth is going to Gaspard with father. That was decided by them. I’m to remain behind. I’m trying to decide what to do about that.”

His eyes are sharp as he looks at Ashe, a clear understanding writ in pale blue, “I imagine you are doing the same.”

“I –!”

_ “I’m afraid I don’t understand,”_ the lie sticks in Ashe’s throat, aching to be spoken. To turn their thoughts and concern away from him and to allow him to pretend, if only for a little while, that the rebellion was not happening. That Lonato was in Gaspard, patiently awaiting another letter from Ashe, doing only the things nobles did, looking over their monthly numbers and ensuring the people on their land were well cared for.

The words are a thief’s first response. A denial and diversion, intent on switching the topic to something else and the old habit makes Ashe’s thoughts feel even more muddled.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, misery creeping up around the corners of his words and Bylead nods. As patient as he had been when speaking of life and death in Zanado.

“So, for now, we’re just doing something that needed doing,” Bylead says, easing the bottle away from his kitten to gently pat the creature’s back.

It hiccups a little in his touch and then burps a little droplet of milk that dribbles onto the ground in front. Bylead tips the corner of a handkerchief to the kitten’s mouth, cleaning him as patiently as a mother cat. His attention focused and hands careful. Dedicated solely to his task. There was an open simplicity and ease to the way Bylead moved. Whether it was in the kitchen or on the battlefield. Straightforward and uncomplicated and in a way, made him both approachable and not.

Ashe finds himself shuffling a little closer. As near as he had dared guide his horse in Zanado, seeking comfort.

“You are thinking to include the Blue Lions?” Dedue asks. Not said in judgment but there was a care with which he asked his question and a look in his eyes.

“Byleth and father do not require us by their side,” Bylead says, “I will not insist on involving our class in unnecessary bloodshed.”

Dedue nods then glances sidelong at Ashe, something solemn and sad in his face as he turns his attention to the kitten again, “Rebellions are bloody and sad. It is never easy facing people fighting for their ideals. There is no shame in wanting to turn your face away from that.”

“No, indeed,” Bylead says but to Ashe the statement feels wrong.

An argument teases the tip of his tongue, the words clumsy and half-formed. Stirred by emotion more than anything else and as if sensing his thoughts, Bylead shifts towards him ever so slightly, body opening up a little as his expression goes heavy.

“It does not stop me from feeling irritated. I do not enjoy being left behind. I detest not knowing. Having to guess at my sister’s and father’s safety,” Bylead takes a slow breath and Ashe thinks he can hear the frustration in that heavy huff, “If it’s to be difficult then I should share in that alongside them. If it’s to be sad, I should feel that as well.”

Christophe’s funeral had been fallen on a clear day. Bright and cheerful. As if the skies themselves would not mourn a traitor. They had no body to bury - there would be no peace for a man marked a criminal - so they had buried a small box of his belongings. It’d been finely carved and all Ashe’s siblings had contributed something. Hoping to keep him company in death. Lonato had stood by the grave for a long time that day. Alone in his grief and intent on keeping it so, his eyes only on the flowers over a token grave, his mind elsewhere. A place Ashe could not reach.

“But that’s not the way of the world. I cannot insist on my involvement in everything," Bylead says, “I have no stake in this matter. Gaspard only another name on the map. It’s people only in my mind as numbers. Byleth and my father are more than enough to suppress a rebellion. All I would add is … well, nothing,” Bylead pauses. Sighs and looks down, “I’m afraid in this matter, I am not your Professor. I’m only thinking through what I can do in the meantime.”

“It’s different for me,” Ashe hears himself speak, the words tremulous on his lips.

“Indeed,” Bylead says, “So, what would you like to do?”

Ashe can remember an old building. A draft in their quarters. His youngest sister spitting up the last bit of porridge, her forehead feverish as she cried. The stove sputters and struggles. Makes their meals uneven, both raw and burnt. It gives off a ghostly puff of heat every now and again, barely enough over the children’s fingers.

A number runs in his mind - the week’s spendings - nearing zero so terrifyingly quick as he tried to piece together another meal, scrambling to make the porridge last.

And then … and then Lonato had been there. Swept into their little room, tall and broad-shouldered like a knight in a fairy tale and ushered them out. Taken Ashe’s insistence at including his siblings and gathered them all into his fold.

He’d been a gentle strength. Leant over them like a broad oak and offered protection without a word.

And now, that same man was leading a bloody charge. Calling civilians to arms in a way he never would have even thought of doing. Bringing young sons and daughters into their army. Gathering civilians in a hopeless fight that would never be won.

The same man who would insist Ashe cease his training lest he overwork himself, _“You mustn’t drown yourself trying to swim. Learn to value yourself first and your skills will come later. There is time enough for one as young as you.”_

Ashe presses his lips together.

“I want to go.”

* * *

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Dimitri says, the words a little too sharp as he looks to Bylead and Ashe.

The Professor only hums, running his hands over his new whetstone, as if unaware of the way the gift exchange had soured. 

“If my sister allows, I don’t see why not,” Bylead says, his voice cool to the point of placid in light of Dimitri’s objections.

“That’s not the point,” Dimitri says, the words vehemently spoken and full of pain. The look he shoots the Professor is wounded, pinched and tense. The leather of his gloves creaks as he curls his hands into fists. He shakes off Dedue’s hand on his shoulder, “I did not expect that you would suggest this, Professor. You, who would step in front of a blade to shield your family. That’s cruel - that you would think to send –“

“No, stop it. I want to go,” Ashe interrupts. He wavers a little, no doubt uncomfortable with addressing a prince in such a manner but then steels himself, “Gaspard is my home. I, too, have a duty to its people.”

Duty and propriety.

Felix could retch.

“Even if that duty involves cutting down your father in cold blood?” he asks.

Rodrigue and Glenn’s damnably large shadows coming over him.

“If … I must,” Ashe says. Convincing to no one.

Dimitri turns to Bylead with an intensity that burns, reaching out to grasp at Bylead’s arm.

The boar resurfacing.

Felix can see the shades coming over Dimitri again. Ghosts coming over him once more, closing him in, claiming him as their own. Felix should have known that a beast could never pose as human for long.

“Professor,” Dimitri says, his voice low, haunted, “You would know, better than any of us, how cruel such a battle would be.”

“Please do not blame this on the Professor, your Highness,” Ashe says, defensive, “I want to see for myself why Lord Lonato has done this. I want to speak with him. I want to understand.”

“You think to convince him otherwise,” Felix accuses, “Do you think the battlefield akin to a tea party? Do you imagine he will hesitate to cut you down?”

“It’s my responsibility to try,” Ashe sets his jaw, frowning into the ground in front of them. There’s a tremble to his shoulders. Felix is certain the thought had not occurred to him.

“Naive,” Felix scowls, turning his glower on the Professor. Hating that he was agreeing with the boar. Hating that thought of Ashe pursuing duty as Glenn had done. A shiver goes up his spine at the thought and he glares harder, acid in his words, “You spoke some pretty words in Zanado but all you’re doing is creating fools. You, of all people, should realize that rushing at an enemy head-on in battle with such hesitation would only lead to death. You can preach about avoiding bloodshed, but at the end of the day, you know there’s no avoiding it. This way, you’re only creating more sorrow.”

“Indeed, Profes –“

“Dimitri, Felix,” Bylead rises to a stand. He eases Dimitri’s fingers off his arm, makes him drop his hold. He doesn’t raise his voice but they listen, “You should allow Ashe the dignity of his choice.”

_ “He chose to carry out his duty to the very end. He died as a true knight. We should be proud.”_

Felix recoils. The words like a strike. A blade slipping low beneath his guard. Twisting in his belly. He barely hears Bylead’s next words.

“I don't think he has any intention of running to this death," Bylead tilts his head at Ashe and the boy shakes his head furiously. Bylead nods, satisfied with the response.

"And I only said it would be Byleth’s decision. That would be up to Ashe to convince her. If not ... well, then I imagine you’ll have to stay behind with me.”

“I’m leaving,” Felix snarls and then to the boar, “This is a pointless topic. Forget our spar, looking at your faces just makes me angry. I’m going to find a different training partner. Farewell, you band of fools.”

He storms away from them, the death of his brother roiling inside him like rats in a feed bag. Hatred, anger, and grief at war inside him, threatening to twist his mind as it did the boar’s. His nails bite into the palm of his hand as he forces them away, refusing to bear them as the boar prince did. Forcing them all aside as he left them, grip on his sword as if holding to a lifeline. 

* * *

Ashe doesn’t know what he’d expected. An easy yes. A warm smile?

No, he was aware of the Professor and his sister’s disposition and their mutual stoicism. What he had not expected, was the frost and glacial cool Byleth carried with her. Strikingly dissimilar to her brother; Ashe feels wrong-footed and ill at ease the moment she turns to look at him. Behind him, he can feel Dimitri bristle as well. Can hear him shift, keenly uncomfortable as Byleth crosses the training grounds. She’s not terribly tall, in fact much shorter than her brother but her presence looms over the two of them. The weight of her making Ashe tremble.

Her eyes slot over to the Professor for a few seconds, allowing Ashe a brief moment of respite and it’s a marvel that Bylead does not react to the heavy judgment in her gaze. Instead, he only blinks at her, unflinching. The two of them speaking without words.

Byleth’s gaze is heavier, more damning when she turns back to Ashe.

“We’re going to kill your father,” Byleth says, the words too terrible to be so plainly said.

As if she were judging him for daring to care. Behind her, Claude blinks a little in surprise. His congenial smile fading a little. As if he’d expected her to simply agree. As Ashe had.

Ashe bites at his bottom lip, trying not to squirm.

“And people that you know,” she continues, “Who do you think is part of his rebellion? The shopkeep you bargained with. The guard who taught you to ride.“

“Prof –“ Dimitri starts, his voice sharp.

“I know,” Ashe says, cutting off his Highness before he can speak further. He will have to apologize for that later. In a whisper, “I know all that … but I want to go. I want to see him. I want to know why …”

“And how will you do that?” Byleth tilts her head, looking at him as if she has posed a question in a class and is awaiting his answer.

A test question worth no more than a handful of points rather than lives.

“I –“ Ashe blinks at her.

He had not expected that. Does not know how to answer it. The seconds draw on, Dimitri glancing between them.

“I know the Gaspard estate,” Ashe stammers, the answer shaky and uneven, “I can move in without notice.”

“So you’re asking to be off the battlefield?”

“N-no! Yes – I –“ Ashe makes a noise, shaking his head, “I can do both.”

Byleth raises an eloquent brow.

“I am prepared to meet those on the battlefield,” he says, holding her gaze in defiance, “But I can also reach Lord Lonato. If we’re to stop this rebellion … it will end with Lord Lonato. I know Gaspard like the back of my hand. And – and I used to be a thief – I can get in. To him.”

“And how many people does he have on his grounds? What are the guard’s schedules? How are his armies positioned?”

Parts a, b, and c to her pop quiz.

“I can find out,” Ashe bites out, refusing to buckle.

Byleth looks at him and then to her brother. Her lips twitch as if she means to curl them in derision, her ire turned more towards her brother than Ashe. She makes a noise like a scoff.

“We’re going to a battlefield, Ashe,” she says, turning back to her training dummy, unsheathing her iron sword again, “You can’t afford to be so callous and clumsy. Come back when you’ve figured out your plan. I won’t have anyone from my end dying as a result of your wavering convictions.”

“Yes! Thank you, Professor!”

* * *

“You,” Byleth waits until Dimitri and Ashe have left to point her sword at her brother, “What are you trying to do?”

“Only what I can,” Bylead says, speaks the words like an old expression, something thrown around between them often, “Isn’t that how we do it? You do what you can on your end and I will do the same on mine.”

Bylead tilts his head at the Sword of the Creator on the sidelines, a hundred more words unspoken.

Byleth’s jaw ticks.

Her eyes drop to Claude, daring him to speak, and when he only holds his hands up, she returns her attention back to her brother, swinging viciously with her iron sword. 

* * *

“Professor, allow me to join your class,” Linhardt says.

“No way in hell.”

Claude whistles as she swings over Linhardt’s head, a beautifully clean sweep taking the head of the dummy while leaving Lindhardt miraculously untouched.

Raphael whoops loudly at the sight, booming over Leonie’s low begrudging approval. 

“Pay attention here!” Caspar shouts, batting ineffectively at him.

The Black Eagles have been back barely a day and Caspar’s still wearing dirt and dust roads, grinning around it as he lunges at Raphael again. Claude has no idea where he gets the energy.

In a flash Leonie kicks at his legs, sending him toppling over.

“Good enough for you?” she snarks, tensing back into a fighting stance as Caspar leaps back up on his feet.

“Yeeesh,” Hilda wrinkles her nose, “Did you make Professor mad? She’s certainly in a mood.”

Claude watches Byleth take a breath, lightly tossing her sword, her face sharp in concentration as she stares down the dummy, ignoring Linhardt’s presence beside her. Another breath and it hitches a little, a faint jump in her upper body that speaks of her discomfort. Almost immediately Linhardt waves a Physic over her, the green-blue magic dropping over her shoulders like a blanket.

“And why not?” Linhardt is asking her, a faint furrow to his brows. Slowly a pout draws over his face as he casts another wave of healing magic over her.

“I said so,” Byleth says and yeah – that was definitely much harsher than usual.

Hilda makes a noise, “Well, Claude. Time to apologize.”

Besides her Marianne tenses, her brow furrowed in worry.

“Hey, I didn’t do anything. She was already annoyed, been so since I last saw her with her brother.”

“Unlikely, the Professor is never so short-tempered around Professor Bylead,” Lorenz sniffs, eying Claude sternly, “You should learn responsibility for your misgivings.”

“_You_ should learn responsibility for your misgivings,” Claude mocks, mumbling under his breath and they all roll their eyes at him. Except for Marianne. Because she’s clearly the best person in the class.

“We’re talking about how snippy the Professor’s been?” Leonie interrupts them. She’s wiping her face with a towel, a waterskin in her other hand. Behind her, Casper and Raphael are in the dirt, wrestling. Leonie’s eyes flit over to Byleth and she hums a little, “Can’t you just hurry up and apologize, Claude? What’d you do, sneak poison in her tea again as a prank?”

“Hey, the last time I tried she flung the cup into the wall without even looking at it,” he says, “And besides, she was amused with that!”

That had started their unit on poisons after all.

Leonie only hums, settling down on the ground, blatantly ignoring Lorenz’s offer of his seat.

They watch Byleth sweep around Linhardt like the wind. Untouched and unbound, dancing over the land, utterly uncaring to the little humans in her way.

Claude can’t take his eyes off her. The Sword of the Creator remains on her back but she swings the plain iron sword with the same strength and ease. As if the power to shatter mountains rested in her and her alone.

“You’re drooling,” Hilda says, wrinkling her nose as she looks pointedly at his chin. Her eyes sparkle, amused, when he wipes at his mouth, “Men are so simple, right Marianne?”

“Huh?” Marianne blushes, her eyes flitting nervously to Claude before dropping down at her fingers, “I … I wouldn’t know.”

“The right answer is ‘yes’,” Hilda says, clearly teasing as she wags a finger at her, “See, take for example our fearless leader here, practically salivating just because Professor took her jacket off.”

“How uncouth,” Lorenz sniffs, touching a handkerchief to his mouth, his eyes critical as he frowns at Claude. As if he hadn’t been staring at Teach just as long as she’d gone through her paces.

“We’d all be lying if we said we didn’t have a little bit of a crush on Teach,” Claude says, smiling brightly at all of them.

_ “Claude,”_ it’s amazing how much disapproval Lorenz can stuff in the name, cheeks scarlet as he stammers out a disagreement.

Really, what on earth was there to be so ashamed of? It wasn’t as if Byleth was unattractive.

“True,” yet another reminder why Hilda was the favorite. Her expression turns considering as she looks over Byleth and sighs, “She has such nice arms. Do you think if I asked, she’d carry me?”

Marianne blushes, suddenly taking too much of an interest in her shoes.

“Oh, don’t worry Marianne, I’ll see if she can carry both of us,” Hilda purrs and Marianne hiccups something under her breath, pressing a little closer to Hilda in embarrassment.

Leonie squeezes her water flask at Hilda, soaking her hair, making her squawk and round on her, furious.

“Hey!”

“Cool off,” Leonie says, unflinching in the face of Hilda’s anger.

“You lot, you’re a distraction.”

They all leap as Byleth comes over to join them. She has Linhardt over her shoulder and he waves at them sleepily. Hilda waggles her eyebrows at Claude and he flashes her a discrete thumbs up as Byleth deposits the boy on the ground beside them.

“But since you’re all so terribly free, you won’t mind joining me for a run in the woods.”

“Aw, Professor!” Hilda whines, “It’s our free day!”

“And we’re going to a battlefield next month,” she snaps. Too sharply.

The class looks at Claude, asking for an answer he does not have. 

* * *

“Ooh, this is gonna be fun!” Caspar cheers excitedly, “Edelgard’s always going on about how the lessons are for the Golden Deer. Just wait til I tell her I was asked to participate.”

He stretches from side to side and then hops energetically in place. Raphael claps him on the back with a laugh loud enough it echoes through the forest.

“I’m ‘it’,” Byleth tells them, “Lindhardt. Marianne. You stay here. Just in case.”

She doesn't say anything more. No comments on their weaknesses and areas they could improve. No biting correction on their forms on stances based on the last lesson. Her knuckles whiten over the hilt of her blade, her thoughts turned inwards, on herself.

Reminds Claude of his father during wartime. When he was too busy with his own concerns to remember a son.

Hilda slides a glance at him, the faintest frown on her face, in silent insistence that he do something and in response he only smiles, easy and unreliable, shrugging his shoulders. Surprisingly her worry drops away. She rolls her eyes and goes back to bemoaning being dragged into a lesson on their day off. As if trusting him to follow through on a promise he hadn’t made.

* * *

“I knew it was a trap,” Claude says, folding his arms as he nods, “It was obvious. You can’t stick yourself in the clearing and expect people to run at you.”

“Well done,” Byleth says.

“Are you mocking me, Teach? I’m hurt. That’s not how a teacher should behave.”

“My apologies. I’ll go now.”

“Hey -wait!” Claude flails in his rope bindings, the movement making him sway like a spider caught in his own web.

Byleth crosses her arms as she waits him out.

“You’re really going to make me say it, huh?” Claude takes a deep breath, “Oh, dearest Professor, please take pity on your beloved student. He was so foolish to think he could best you. So blinded by his avarice and cockiness to have ever seen your dastardly trap. Would that you can find it in your heart to forgive such a foolish mortal and release him from your hold.”

He bats his eyes at her for good measure.

“Oh, come on,” he sighs when she only stares at him, “Alright. I was wrong to underestimate you, Teach. I should’ve seen the trap. Should’ve set it up first –“

“You forgot idiotic in your speech,” Byleth interrupts. And okay that was definitely mocking. She might have a face rigid as the Four Saints but there were cracks.

“I am a stupid little man,” he says, nodding at her.

He yelps when the rope holding him to the tree is cut, landing heavily in her arms. Her shoulder digs painfully into his stomach and he yelps again when she buckles, feeling her grimace under him. He curls around her, all of his upper body strength forced into keeping himself from toppling off her shoulder and trying not to blush at the hand on his thigh. At least he was one up he had on Hilda.

“Oi, Teach, watch out for your wounds.”

“I’m fine.”

A clear lie, he can hear the grind of her teeth as she tries to take a steadying breath and squirms a little. Keeps doing it until she drops him in a heap.

“Ow, ow,” he mutters, kicking his legs to sit up. She hadn’t done him the favor of cutting off the rope tying his arms together.

But her attention is not on him now, eyes closed as she tries to take another rallying breath, slowly in through her mouth. He listens as it settles in her lungs and waits for her to take a few more before rising to his feet, bumping her lightly.

“So, you going to let your favorite student in as to why you’re so irritated?”

“No.”

“Ah, so you _are_ irritated –“

And he _was_ her favorite student. Nice.

“Does it have to do with the Western Church? No, I can’t imagine Gaspard is particularly close to your heart. Even with Ashe’s plead. Something with the Sword, then? You haven’t been using it at all. Or your Crest,” the look in her eyes tells him to quiet down, not as urgent as she had been in the Mausoleum but stern enough anyone else would obey, “Too heavy for you?”

“Yes,” Byleth says after a long moment, the word nearly lost as she turns away.

Slowly she pulls the blade from her back, swinging it slowly. Almost tentatively.

There was a care in her movements. As if preparing herself in case the Sword lunged back at her.

“I can’t understand what’s so special about this. Or why Rhea deemed it mine. As if I were the only one capable of swinging it,” she says, “Guided by fate or destiny is an idiotic way of refusing to give me answers.”

Claude twitches as she swings the Sword around, holding himself rigid as she slice through his bindings with it. Lets it rest against his throat. She looks back at him almost languidly but he can read the tension in her eyes. He does not imagine the way it slithers against him, twitching as if calling out.

“You don’t like it much, do you, Teach?”

“No,” simply said of such a prized weapon. Something like hatred crosses her face, a faint shadow of what he’d seen in the Mausoleum but it’s a look that makes him want to flinch back.

It seems to make the blade twitch harder. Rumbling as if trying to summon a voice.

“It feels disgusting,” she says, “Like it’s trying to reach out to me. To claim a hold on me.”

Claude feels his heart skip as she spins and swings it. The Sword snaps into pieces, extending out in a flexible whip, slashing at his bindings and then embedding itself firmly into the oak behind her.

“Moves too easily. As if it knows and understands me at my very core,” the words are nearly a snarl, “Feels as if it’s going to swallow me up if I let it. To think Bylead would also –”

There’s a wealth of secrets in that broken statement. Something seething and dark in her eyes and voice as she spoke of her brother.

“Well,” Claude says, stepping up to ease the blade from the tree, smiling easily at her, aiming to soothe, “I’ve never known you to be the sort to be swallowed up by anything. Not even while outnumbered protecting two kids. So… tell me, Teach, why the fear?”

He expects her to roll her eyes at him and shove him for the audacity. Swat at him or something but she looks at the Sword again.

Her expression cracks a little. Wondering. Confused. And Claude stares, grabbing for the little flick of emotion on her face like a starving man presented a feast. She’s so subtle with them, her face barely showing it, but there were a few tells. A twitch here and there. A little hitch of the breath. He’s still marveling as her stoicism creeps over her again.

“I see,” she says, “So it was fear.”

He waits for her to elaborate but she doesn’t, only turns her attention away as she tugs the Sword of the Creator back into its original shape.

Claude bumps her gently, wanting her attention on him again, stretching out a hand, “Well, whatever it is, we’re going to greet it at Gaspard. And if you’re taken with something else … say the rebellion, well, I’ll do what I can.”

Borrowing the intimacy of her brother’s words. Byleth’s eyes flash. Annoyance or something else?

He doesn’t have much of a chance to wonder. She squeezes his extended hand, nodding curtly at him.

“You’re still out.”

“Aw, Teach!”

* * *

Felix remembers Glenn’s height most of all. Not simply because of the age difference. Glenn had towered over the students of his year and then over the Kingdom soldiers. Always head and shoulders above any crowd. His sharp words and rough mannerisms made him even more difficult to miss.

It had made finding out about his death as simple as breathing. Felix had only had to look. Stared at empty space and found nothing. His breath had crackled in his mouth like Thoron did at his fingers as he’d stood at the Fraldarius gates, trying to summon a face back from the dead.

Is still trying to look for Glenn now. An old habit he’d tried desperately to shake himself of and ultimately failed, far too accustomed to looking up to his brother. Figuratively and literally.

Always leaping at the chance to practice swordplay with his brother in some blind attempt to reach for him. Had struggled to match Glenn’s lengthy strides, unable to keep pace whenever he walked beside his brother who often made no attempt to slow; Glenn’s mind was often on other things. More important things. Always looking far beyond Felix, not ignoring just simply … unseeing.

But that hadn’t mattered to Felix. It hadn’t bothered him that he couldn’t catch up. That in any sword fight, Glenn’s reach had made it impossible for Felix to land any blow. That House Fraldarius held Glenn up like a shining beacon when he was knighted far ahead of all others his age. That no one glanced at the second sun, muted and unseen, hidden in the inescapable reach of Glenn’s shadow.

Because Felix had adored his brother. Thoroughly. Wholeheartedly.

He was delighted with Glenn’s appointment. Crowed as loud as any others for the man who towered above all other knights. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. The true heir of the Shield of Faerghus. The only man who –

“Who are you fighting?”

The training dummy shatters, the wood chips erupting into the air beneath the light of Felix’s crest. His sword sweeps through the dummy, trailing around, flashing under the moonlight, the tip grazing the bridge of Byleth’s nose. He swears at the paper-thin welt of red rising to her face. Alarm making him recoil, stumbling and careless on his feet.

An apology stuttering inside him, unreleased.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he spits instead. He’s always been too clumsy with words.

Byleth doesn’t roll her eyes at him but he gets the sense she wants to.

Felix can see a cluster of bruises still and she is wearing a splint on one hand. She raises her sword, snaps his aside with a strength he hadn’t expected from her non-dominant hand.

“The Professor would –“ Felix grits his teeth against the brute force of Byleth’s blade.

It is as heavy as ever, makes his knees buckle as he tries to shove her off.

“I’m aware Bylead wants a lot of things right now,” Byleth says.

Her tone almost … cold. Felix knows that to be unusual between the siblings.

“And yet, I’ve heard you’ve agreed to take Ashe,” Felix snarls, “Prone to indulging him are you?”

Byleth disengages, her expression unchanging as she looks at him, “You heard wrong.”

She considers him, “Whether or not Ashe comes is up to him.”

She charges at him again. Her movements have barely changed. Only slightly stiffer in the upper body to account for her bandages, “And you never answered my question.”

“Hmph, I was training,” Felix says, twisting out of range of her blade.

“Then train with me. Waving a sword around alone is pointless and dull,” Byleth says, following him. Her eyes are cold, stripping away at him, “And you’re not the only one chasing after an enemy tonight. Let me borrow you.”

“What.”

She lashes at his feet, scoring deep in the dirt and then snapping up. The blade flashing between his eyes.

“Your style is most similar to Jeritza. A knight’s posture with a mercenary’s ruthlessness. Around the same height and speed,” she takes a stance, “Come, I have no intention of being caught unawares again.”

He feels a wicker of blood drip down the side of his nose and lunges back, cruelly vindictive when she stumbles a little. Guard too weak with her sore ribs. A little hiss of displeasure snares her lips and they fall at each other, conversation giving way to the clash of blades.

Byleth is a comfortable challenge. Skilled enough to allow senseless thoughts to fly from his head. Draws his focus to just the dulcet ring of their blades. Byleth’s words flitting through the air at inconsistent intervals to guide his feet faster or to adjust his stance. Guiding him into some semblance of Jeritza’s fighting form so that she could have someone to practice against. To test and steady her for the next fight.

And though he gave her no such feedback, he could see her shifting. Older siblings crossing over, Glenn’s shadow extending out from himself, seeping into her form and stance. Picking up whatever subtle cues he was throwing out to shift and arrange herself into a form with an achingly painful resemblance of Glenn.

Felix grunts when she slips beneath his guard, biting down a foul swear as she sends his blade flying and clattering behind him. She’s a little winded, a droplet of sweat gliding down her throat as she knocks him to the ground, holding her blade to his throat. But ultimately, and embarrassingly, she is unaffected. Felix feels his mouth twist, jealousy and grief and hatred intermingling so messily he wants to vomit.

He snarls, swiping at her blade blindly.

Without a word, she lets it fall away, well out of reach of his hand. Lest he hurt himself on it. A laugh escapes him, low and bitter, nearly as deranged as the boar’s and he’s keenly aware of her scrutiny. Feels her shift as if uncertain and thrown off.

“Satisfactory, Professor?”

“You’re getting better,” Byleth says and he watches her toy with her sword, swinging it absently on her arm enviable ease. As if it were an extension of her. She could have passed for Faerghus bred, raised on the back end of a sword. Except …

“You fight like a mercenary. Not a knight. Too hungry for victory.”

“A compliment?” Byleth tilts her head at him, her eyes going sharp.

“Yes,” Felix says, feeling a little too raw to hide his disdain as he keeps talking, “Knight's ought to have some hunger. They depend too much on their swords until they’re wrested away. Lean on their morality. On their oath.”

His mouth curls around the ‘O’. The word on his tongue like vile poison, “All worthless things that cloud their minds. Victory is what matters, not the method of achieving it. That's the attitude to adopt. I detect that in your style. It is plain to see.”

“Mercenaries fight for survival.”

“That’s what your brother said, but I don’t see the same in him,” Felix refuses to recoil at Byleth’s look, too sharp and assessing. Serpentine keen as if assessing him a threat, “Prone to indulgences. Recoiling from death and too optimistic to have been raised on battle.”

“He will adapt when needed.”

“Ha, you would allow him such a luxury? Dangerous. Not to mention, remarkably stupid,” his lips curl, “Will he not hinder your survival?”

Byleth doesn’t answer at first. Walks over to his discarded sword. She turns it over for a moment, shaping a still contemplative figure beneath the moonlight before bringing it back to him.

“He is, isn’t he?” she says, “It’s almost as if he doesn’t understand despite walking the field we all do.”

She steps a few paces away. Stops in front of a training dummy, head tilted.

“That idiot,” he hears her murmur to herself and then she turns to face him again.

The sword she points at him this time is many times colder.

Scarcely armed and bruised as she is, she gathers a tension about her, drawn by her stance and frigid gaze. Makes him feel as if he is staring down the open throat of a predator. Ready to consume him.

“But that doesn’t matter. I am capable of allowing him his indulgences,” she says and it sets Felix’s teeth on edge.

He rises to her challenge, lunges in, sweeping low and out of her guard, around to the dummy behind her. Intent on reminding her of just how simple it would be –

He leaps out of the way of her swing, twisting around the dummy to take the back. His sword hovering on its neck when her blade curves at him, the silver edge like a sickle. Seems to bend and yield around the dummy’s neck as she goes for him and him alone. Her eyes aflame and intent, expression darkly unforgiving. Damning him into stillness.

“Understand?” Byleth asks, tilting her blade so that the blunt end taps his throat. Her other hand is folded around the dummy, drawing it into her guard like a live being.

“You would damn him to wear your death for the rest of your life if you die this way,” Felix says, the truth of his words stinging his chest. As if he has doused an open wound there in alcohol.

Byleth is silent once more and he can see her thinking over his words.

“I know,” she says, pulling away.

She rights the dummy. Sheathes her blade.

“Another time I would say that’s for him to figure out,” Byleth says, her eyes and thoughts elsewhere staring ahead. At other things. More important things. Looking so much like Glenn, Felix aches. Shaped in one enormous wound gone untreated and left festering, “That should I die, I will do so carving a path for him to keep going. And that I would trust him to keep forging ahead without me by his side.”

She looks at him closely, reading something from his face he does not like.

“But I can’t … so I have to be better,” she claps his arm, walking over to the other end of the training grounds.

She picks up the Sword of the Creator, cast into the dirt like so much garbage.

“Thank you, Felix,” she says, “I’d forgotten I have no time for fear.”

Her expression slides closed in concentration.

Eyes going dark and intense, turning in on herself and the –

The Crest of Flames explodes, born from the hollow in the sword’s hilt.

“Hey!”

She’s set herself alight and he rushes over, thinking to grab her arms, grimacing at the flames but –

Felix blinks stupidly at the fire, feeling nothing under the palm of his hand.

The Crest vanishes. She sloughs the fire like nothing, turning to him, her expression clear. Glenn moving to join the entourage to Duscar. Leaving him behind.

“Thank you, Felix,” she says again, turning to leave.

_ “No. Don't. Come back,”_ the words burning his throat like acid, stirred from something instinctive, calling for him to reach out.

Protest burns and then dies in his throat, leaving him staring at the empty training grounds. The letter from his father waves at him from the ground beneath his sheath and he hears himself snarl.

Whips around. His own Crest erupting through him once more as he swings his sword hard enough it shatters into pieces. 

He goes to find his Professor.


	14. White Clouds: Preparation

“What did you pull with my kids, Rhea?"

The papers for Gaspard crumble in Jeralt's fist. The words spill from him like mead from an alcoholic’s glass. Sloppily and mistakenly done.

He had not meant for them to come forth. Had only intended to review the reports from Gaspard and seen her staring down at his daughter. Watching her movements. So entranced she had not even noticed Jeralt approach.

And anger had flared in him. Embers flaring and then bursting into flame. Snaring on existing coals, drawing them back to life over fresh fuel.

Dimly, he is grateful there is no one else but them on Rhea’s personal floors.

_Only us,_ he thinks as he steps forward.

As if he intends on a fight here and now. He can see a little thrum of tension go through her. Can feel her attention shifting towards him. Slowly. As if unwilling to pull her thoughts from his daughter and that makes him want to take hold of his lance and swing. And swing. And swing.

“Answer the question, Rhea," he manages around clenched teeth, "And let's not lie this time. There’s too many years and secrets between us for you to think I don't see through those."

“You know I would never harm your children,” is the nonanswer, serenely said.

Everything about Rhea is so artfully precise and carefully constructed, an Archbishop held upright by the persona she’d carved for herself. She doesn’t flinch away from the accusation. Nor does she balk at his anger. She only regards him coolly, her eyes like a lake beneath moonlight, still and untouched, as if above his petty concerns.

“And you know I would never harm your wife,” she says. Her lashes flit down over her eyes, mouth twisting bitterly, “Your accusations sting, my friend. To have such groundless claims thrown at me by one who stood by my side all those years … How the world has changed."

"Friend, huh?"

Jeralt chuckles mirthlessly. He remembers well when that had been the highest honor. Knows that if he only closes his eyes, he could fall back into the memories. When he’d stood on Rhea’s right and guided his horse under her command. When he'd raised his lance against her enemies. Fought her war. Carried her justice.

Died for her.

Can still taste the smoke and ash and dirt. Can feel the fire in his chest as he was torn open.

He blinks, looking at an Archbishop he does not know. A chosen hero he no longer claimed. Old ghosts tremble besides him. The former Knights of Seiros clanging their blades and beating their shields as they cried out for their hero. One they had been willing to die for. Just as he had. But they are here no longer.

“That’s what it does for folks like us. Faces change. Kingdoms fall. Empires rise. The world spins on and on,” Jeralt tells her, letting go of some of the anger to look at an old friend long lost. The way she tilts her head at him is as familiar as ever but the glint of caution aimed at him is not. He doesn’t allow himself to waver any further as he continues, “But you never were the type to move on from times past. Always the type to linger in your grief."

Her eyes flash. Annoyance. Anger. Something righteous and terrible flitting through her for one long moment before she folds it all away. She takes a breath. A quirk pulled from her other form, where such a breath preceded fire and brimstone.

“And you have?” she asks, her tone low and her words aimed lower still, “I can see your wife on you like a shroud. You carry her with you still, wherever you go. If your children go the same way, I imagine you would carry them to the eternal flames on your back. So do not tell me Jeralt, exactly how I carry my own grief.

“I will when you involve other people in it,” he snaps back, storming closer, nearly in her face and she doesn’t back down. 

Seiros once more in a dragon winged helm, snarling fire and heat.

“I did not –“

“Tell me you didn’t touch them,” he interrupts, protectiveness guiding anger, the emotions rushing up out of his mouth as words, “Look me in the eye, Rhea – no, Seiros, and tell me you did not lay your hands on them after their birth. We both know what you’re capable of. We both know that I only stand here because of your blood magic –“

“I saved your _life_."

“- We both know there was something you and my wife never told me. A secret you shared. Linked to the same experiments you’d tried on me."

Her expression tears a little. Alarm. Then caution. Her fingers curl into fists. Her stance shifting. He feels his cheek twinge in anticipation for the punch. Knowing her capabilities.

But she does not move. Stands stock still, her eyes wide, the pupil in them growing slender. Rhea waiting for the first sign of a threat. Ready and willing to pass judgement with her own hands.

“I never pried. Because my wife asked me not to and I respected her enough for that,” Jeralt says, “But I know there was something about her. Something to the way you would watch me when I first courted her. I thought it was protectiveness. Your care for a priest under your church but it was more than that wasn’t it, Rhea?"

Her lips twist and he can see the first gleam of teeth, sharp and pointed. The Immaculate One rumbling to life beneath her skin. Ready to molt this form.

“Your attention fell away from her after a while but there were still moments where you’d stare at her. Watch wistfully, as if still holding to some small glimmer of hope. I saw it come back. Trained and focused on my kids. No ... on Byleth,” he doesn’t take his eyes off Rhea, watching and cataloguing every minute twitch. Every whisper of breath, “I see how your eyes track her whenever she moves. Like you’re waiting for something to happen. Tell me what you did, Rhea."

“Your wife died in childbirth. A natural thing. And the children were born weak but I did –“

He hears the lie start to seep in. Blood in water. Staining red.

“We seated Kings and Emperors together. Lifted Fodlan into new dawns with our weapons linked,” he spits, “So don’t _bullshit_ me, Rhea, expecting compliance. I was once your most devout follower after all. Now look me in the eye. And tell me. Tell me you did not touch my children when they were born."

He sees her temper flare, feeling it on himself like a flame, feeling his blood boil and twist as if in response. As if her blood within him were deeming him traitor.

_Well, too fucking late. I was traitor and defector twenty years ago,_ Jeralt thinks, holding himself upright as they stare each other down.

And the world rumbles with Rhea’s rage. The air crackling with the smell of flames. Of old wars and heated battlefields. Of kings and successions and failed uprisings. Her green eyes go slitted for one long moment, her teeth sharp enough to tear his throat and then nothing.

Silence.

Jeralt utters a laugh. Furious and bitter. Full of things he wants to say but cannot. Full of sorrow and rage in equal parts, a tincture of grief threatening to stop his heart as he, at last, is presented with a truth he’d teased between his fingers for the last twenty years.

“So what is it, Rhea?” he asks, “Whose blood is it and what will it do to them? Twist their forms? Turn them into golems? Those things you have in the basement?"

“You know I am not capable of turning their forms with blood."

“But it can stop their heart."

She doesn’t startle but he sees something settle in her eyes. Confusion. Understanding. But only half. He feels himself grimace. How like her to create something she only half understood.

“But what after? Will you twist them into something else? Into vessels?”

“No,” she says but it wavers a little.

“Byleth’s doesn’t beat. And her brother’s … it’s slow. Like it’s getting ready to stop,” he says, “Did you think you could hide that from me? Did you bring them from the dead? Or did you make them from nothing? I'm not stupid enough to believe this is what you had intended. Not when you're so keen on observing and watching. Waiting for something to emerge. What did you make them for?"

“You think too much of my abilities, Jeralt,” Rhea says, lips twisting in a derisive laugh.

She looks down to the grounds again. Her anger slowly folding away like an old cloak to be stored. She’s grown since their last shared battlefield. Knowing to sheath her anger now in front of enemies. Sharpen it when alone for when she needed it most.

“I only saved their lives,” she says, her voice steady on a sentence recited. She dips her head. Again that slow draw of breath, as if summoning her flames, “The girl was born on the cusp of death. On her last breath already. The boy was born weak. Their mother dying. She begged me to save their lives above hers. And so I did. I ensured their survival over hers. Took her heart for Byleth –“

“Her heart –“

“And blood for the boy,” Rhea’s eyes glimmer green as she casts him a sidelong look, “She was already dying Jeralt. There was no hope for the mother. I had to carve the boy from her before he could choke. And with the last of her strength, she begged me, as her final wish, to ensure their survival. And it worked, Jeralt."

“Congratulations, you have a set of twins, whole and hale."

“Whole and hale, huh?” Jeralt curls his lip, “And I’m to believe that’s all?

“Yes,” Rhea says and he hears the lie in it, anger pushing him forward and when he moves he feels the point of claws against his chest.

“There’s no bringing back the dead. No matter how much we may try,” Rhea says, her words measured. Commanding him to let it rest.

Her claws press against his heart, trail against an injury long healed.

He remembers how the skin had pieced itself together like brick and mortar. Tiling itself back over the gaping hole in his chest. Saw how his heart had stitched itself together as her blood burned through him. The speed of his healing, the power of her gift, making his body a foreign thing. A creature shaped by her and –

“I have no intention of undoing what was already done,” Rhea says and her claws dig more firmly into him, an unsubtle threat, “She is intricately tied to someone most dear to me. So rest easy, Jeralt, and know that our desires fall in line. I want your children to live as much as you do. If not more.

“You could have said something to me before this,” Jeralt snarls, still clinging to the hurt. Still aching to tear the answers from her throat. Itching for a fight as if he were twenty once more roaming Empire bars, “You could have–“

Rhea looks at him now. Defiant.

“And you would not have held it against them?” Rhea asks, the words like poison on her tongue, “I remember you in the thick of your grief. You could barely stand to look at your children. Did not like to be in the same room with them until your wife was buried and you remembered your responsibilities. Will you look me in the eyes now and tell me you did not wish she survived over them?"

He stumbles back. The words more painful than her claws could ever be. A denial presses on his tongue but he cannot let it out.

In his silence, she only laughs, a cruel little chuckle more suited for an executioner, “I understand your anger, my fri – no, Jeralt. And I know your grief. But know this, I moved my hand because of your wife’s wishes. Your children are alive because of what I did that night. Will you resent me for blessing you with them?

He cannot answer that. Not to Rhea. Will not allow himself to speak the words. Not daring to hear his own truth and not wishing to offer her anything of his.

He hands over the papers for Gaspard. Nods.

And turns to leave her. Tells himself he is not fleeing. 

* * *

“This won’t work,” Byleth says, her eyes lifting from the parchment to Ashe.

A simple statement, though not cruelly said, is particularly heavy coming from Byleth, made more firm by her mannerisms. Something about her made her sharper than her brother; her words, her tone, and her stance. Pressed the weight of a commander into her, made her someone accustomed to taking charge.

“You’re assuming numbers for the Gaspard troops. Did we not receive a report yesterday? We should have something more solid than rough estimates by now. As for how they are placed - this is from the textbooks I saw you with last week,” Byleth’s gaze is impossible to meet.

Ashe folds his arms behind his back, struggling to brave her scrutiny. To accept her criticism without faltering, lest she change her mind and decide his fate on this one proposal alone. And choose to leave him behind …

Her expression is passive, though Ashe cannot keep the grimace from his own face, as she gives him back his parchment, “Do you think this is how you would face Lonato?

That was the problem. He had not thought he’d face Lonato. Liked to think that no one thought to stand against their father but could not bring himself to claim such naivety.

“I think ... I think he will station his men on the eastern front to meet us,” Ashe forces the words out, his heart made heavy with the weight of them, “The Western Church will join from the other end but Lord Lonato … he does not trust so easily. Not so foolish to trust untested troops and ... and I've never seen them on our lands. I imagine they will not come through Gaspard lands but around. I think he will have them engage us first. So they draw out Catherine … he …"

_“You are my sworn enemy, Thunderstrike Cassandra, and I will remember your betrayal like a mark on my very soul,”_ the Lonato in his head is grave and terrifying. Cheeks sallow and haunted. Borne in vengeance and devoted to death.

“He will allow her main forces through the front of his estate. He will intend to take her head himself,” Ashe continues and shudders to think of them meeting.

Catherine’s forces against the doors of Castle Gaspard. The gates opening and then Lonato himself rising to greet them. Sworn enemies facing each other on a battlefield. He knows deep in his bones Lonato would throw away life and limb to tear away at her. Knows Catherine would move to greet him.

“I will amend,” he says, reaching for the parchment but Byleth tips it out of his reach at the last second.

“Another comment. You are making use of the Knights of Seiros as if they are yours to guide. As if they move for your purpose and not Rhea’s,” she says, her eyes flicking to the windows, “You should remember that sometimes your goals may differ from your allies. And not to be caught disagreeing when they outnumber you so."

Outside he can see troops moving through the courtyards wearing dirt roads and a long journey. More of Catherine’s returning with reports. More damning evidence of treason. He knows well what the price of that is and for a moment Ashe falters. Wondering if it were worth reaching out a hand to Lord Lonato. To risk life and limb in order to draw forth an answer for himself. If it were not terribly selfish of him to demand his place on a battlefield that did not require him.

He stiffens when he comes back to Byleth’s gaze, the knowing look in her eyes makes him flinch. As if she can read the indecision in him.

_“I won’t have anyone on my end dying because of your wavering convictions,”_ she’d said.

Here and now she asks, “What’s your goal, Ashe?

And he firms his will. Meets her gaze.

“Reach Gaspard estate before the Knights of Seiros. Before anyone. And to bring Lord Lonato in, on my terms,” he vows, the words coming fast and unbelievably easily, drawn from his very being. He takes the parchment from her. Tips it into the candle beside her and watches it bloom into a fiery rose, “The next one will be better.”

“Hm."

Ashe blinks, stunned as she ruffles his hair, the gesture so like Christophe’s he thinks he stops breathing for a moment. It's a quick touch. A there and gone movement.

“Linhardt, you’re in the wrong classroom.” she says, aiming her words behind him, already walking away from Ashe.

“Oh no, Professor,” comes the pleasant reply, “I am only sitting in. I do recall you offered me the option to do so whenever I pleased. I know one such as you would never renege on a promise purposefully so I hope it’s not that head injury from the Mausoleum. Do let me take a look will you?"

* * *

  
The next plan is not better.

“Wow, convoluted,” Claude says, his nose wrinkling.

Nor the fifth.

“O-oh, so that is what –” Dimitri utters, glancing at the Professor.

Bylead only glances at them both for a second, touching a finger to his lips as his eyes flick to the rest of the classroom before turning to Hanneman, capturing his attention with a question.

“I see,” Dimitri says and shakes himself visibly, running to his table to retrieve a set of books. Old maps and territory lines.

“Perhaps these will help."

Nor the seventh.

“Oh? Yet another plot?” Linhardt asks, peering over his shoulders in the library at three in the morning.

He reaches around Ashe, batting away the little Goddess icon Ashe had brandished thinking to dissuade a ghost.

Linhardt gestures, a little elegant draw of his finger, around the circle of coins Ashe had been using to represent the Knights of Seiros. Draws one silver piece out in front. Pushing towards the pile of coins meant to represent Captain Jeralt’s troops.

“Bring Caspar,” Linhardt says, after a long moment of shuffling. His eyes are cool as he looks over the map, drawing the little piece here and there as if Caspar were a little bumblebee dancing through flowers, “He would be good on the frontlines. And the Professor … well, she is frighteningly careless when she is the sole person on the frontlines. I imagine it will end better than the Mausoleum if she brings him."

Ashe has no idea what that means.

The eighth plan fails.

As does the eleventh.

The fifteenth.

Ashe struggles to keep from gritting his teeth against the casual ease with which Byleth points out holes and weaknesses, many of them fatal. Tries not to let the words dig into him. Tries to see them for the advice they are.

“They’ve been getting better,” Claude offers, biting into an apple as he peers over the map sprawled out on the Dimitri’s desk.

Dimitri looks over the charts slowly, eyes tracing the lines Ashe had pointed out, shuffling some of the gold and silver pieces they’d been using in place of army flags. There’s a little trace of disappointment as he looks over the charts now, overshadowed by frustration. Students sharing irritation over a particularly difficult exam.

Their Professor is silent, only leans his head against his sister’s arm, eyes drifting closed. He’d not reacted as Ashe had detailed this latest tactic and had similarly not even twitched as Byleth had pointed out the flaws. As if he’d expected the result. Embarrassment twists in Ashe’s stomach, twinning tails with frustration.

Dimitri touches Ashe’s shoulder lightly. A gesture aiming at comfort.

“It was indeed a masterful plan,“ Dimitri offers. He glances at Bylead, running his fingers through his hair, “I’d thought you would be sent to Gaspard unprepared … but this is quite a lot alre–“

“Masterful? It’s making too many assumptions,” Byleth interrupts, shaking off Dimitri’s ensuing frown, “You’re doing him no favors with baseless compliments. Need I remind you Gaspard is a week away. You are fast running out of time.

She glances at her brother and they share a moment’s conversation through looks alone. Ashe wonders if it’s a plead for him, half hoping it is not; but another, more pitiful half, hoping the opposite. Given the way Byleth’s minute expressions do not change when she comes back to them, it is not. Only a simple acknowledgement between the siblings that his fate was by his own design.

Ashe grabs for the map, nearly knocking the chair over as he stands. The move shakes off Dimitri’s hand roughly and he cannot find it in himself to be sorry, frustration boiling over like an overly full cauldron.

“I will have something,” he says. More to himself than anyone else. Wanting to reach through his hair, yanking until an idea fell from his brain, “I will –“

“Ashe …” he can see Dimitri shuffling, his Highness working through soothing words, hoping to placate and Ashe feels himself tense. Seconds from snapping.

“You want a hint?” Claude asks and the casual ease with which he speaks makes Ashe want to shake him, “You’re not making proper use of us. It’s as if you don’t trust us. How sad."

And he pouts dramatically, a move that doesn’t match the sharpness of his eyes.

“Claude, speaking in riddles is not much of a hint."

“Oh, come now, I can’t make it too easy, your Highness,” he says winking.

“Easy –?! This is hardly the time for such callousness. These are people –"

“And me among them,” Claude says and though he still smiles there is a bite to his words, something low and full of weighty judgement, “You want me to trust someone incapable with my life?"

Dimitri has no answer for that. Ducking his head. A frown on his face.

“If you intend to lead an army, you should make use of every unit,” Bylead says quietly, surprising them all, “Your goals may differ from the Knights of Seiros but you are not without troops of your own.

He doesn’t say anymore. Gives his sister yet another before leaning back against her arm. Adjusting a little to avoid the hard poke of the Sword of the Creator –

And like a hammer striking iron –

“Professor Byleth – you!” Ashe blurts out.

He jams his finger hard against a point on the map. Scrawls out a path. One he’d avoided for it dipped into Empire territory, forced them around Gaspard but also the Western Church. Had meant to play it safe for he knew that as students they would be tethered close to the main armies. But with Professor Byleth – with Professor Byleth only … without her class –

“Oh,” Claude and Dimitri breath out interest in a breath as Bylead hums.

“Captain Jeralt can engage here. And Catherine here,” Ashe’s fingers fly over the map and it looks so much larger now. So much freer. Pathways splintering open for him as he draws lines of movement. Places troops and armies. Guides people and –

“And how do you intend on disguising our actions?”

“I – I will leave that to the Golden Deer,” Ashe breathes, glancing at Claude tentatively, “Professor and I will go alone. And if need be – Linhardt had an idea …I … I think this will work."

He holds himself rigid under Byleth’s gaze, fingers twisting nervously under her scrutiny.  
The moment draws out, so desperately long Ashe feels his knees go weak when she speaks again.

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Byleth says and Ashe barely resists shouting, “The Golden Deer will be sharing lessons with the Black Eagles in preparation for Gaspard up until we depart. I suppose I’ll see you in my class tomorrow.

A grin splits Ashe’s face, so wide it nearly hurts his cheeks as he leaps to his feet, “Thank y–“

“Save it for after,” she interrupts.

“I – yes, but … I’m grateful you’ve allowed me to join you and … and –“

Byleth makes a noise, low and suspiciously like a “harumph.

“It was only a favor for my brother,” she says and eyes Bylead hard. He blinks at her serenely.

Something like a smile graces his lips, a faint little thing allowing no more than a glimmer of joy but an expression they haven’t seen before. Surprising enough Dimitri stares. Openly gawking so Ashe doesn’t feel too terrible for doing the same.

“See you tomorrow, Ashe,” Byleth says again. A clear dismissal.

And when he turns to leave, hears Bylead say softly to his sister, “I specifically did not ask you a favor becuase you would not have –."

He glances behind to see her shove his face away. 

* * *

“Hey,” Jeralt says and then has to pause a moment, steadying his voice, “Sorry it took me so long to get back here. You know … same old reason.”

_“I had to help an old woman with her bags. You know. As Knights do."_

And he imagines she rolls her eyes and swats at him as she had for their fourth date.

With a sigh, he pats his wife’s tombstone.

There are cracks on it now. Yet another thing to outpace him in wearing age. Her name is no longer readable, obscured and lost to time. As if she existed only within him and the few that remembered her. Jeralt lays a bouquet of white roses by the stone as he sits. Lays a set of tea leaves - a gift from the Gloucester boy, he probably won’t mind it being repurposed - besides the flowers and sets down a bottle of whiskey beside himself.

Pours a glass.

Toasts her.

And for a moment it is almost like sitting down to tea time with her.

Their first date. Her smiling as he’d recited a passage on the summer fruit blend and then outright laughing when he’d mixed it up with what he’d memorized on the four spice blend. He hadn’t minded her teasing at all, only sat there red-faced, delighted with the way her entire face lifted in her joy. Radiant as the sun.

All the words he wants to say vanishes in his mouth like spun sugar from the Sweets Festivals. The years lost between them hanging heavy the air as he traces her tombstone with his eyes. The same care with which he’d once memorized her face.

“Well, I think you understand regardless,” he says instead and closes his eyes.

Pretends she hums and leans against his arm, her eyes sliding shut. They’d always been that way. Had simply understood each other. Offered space for words they wanted to share. And offered comfort for things that could not be said. It made the secrets between them possible. Kept them from souring their love for each other.

Jeralt knocks back the shot. Pours another and does the same. Sighs at the burn in his throat, feeling it slip down and down, bursting into bonfire in his chest. And only then does he dare to take out her ring. Turning the polished metal in his rough fingers, losing himself in the memories.

Of the Heron Ball when she guided him slowly around the corners of the room. Him trying desperately not to stomp on her toes until she’d trodded his on purpose.

_“Well, see - now that’s out of the way and the pressure’s off._

Of them in the gardens. Him nearly tearing out an entire rose bush and pricking himself mightily when he’d tried to snatch white roses for the Garland Moon festivities. She’d laughed herself silly. Then tucked a rose behind his ear and kissed him. He wore it for a week. Threw a javelin at any of the Knights who’d dared to comment.

Of choir practices where he would pretend to sing. Closed his eyes to hear her more vividly. Let the sweet lilt of her voice lift him. Raised him up and up –

He lets himself wallow in the memories. With old faces and friends. Their voices rising around him replacing the murmur of those currently –

He jerks his shield to the left, scarcely in time to block a whipped blade, knocking it aside but not quick enough. The edge snatches at his hair, taking a few strands.

“Careless,” Byleth deems and her eyes are critical as she approaches.

She’s wearing one of her brother’s daggers on her hip and holding the Sword of the Creator. Her expression is no longer as pinched as it had been when last they spoken. As if she’d found renewed determination. He can read an eagerness in her for their departure tomorrow. Something anticipatory and ready to move. Knows his daughter well enough to understand she is eager to disprove her own mistakes in a previous battle.

He stiffens as she approaches him. The conversation with Rhea still making a mess of his thoughts.

_“Will you look me in the eyes now and tell me you did not wish she survived over them?"_

Byleth drops a flask into his lap. Makes sure to bounce it off his head first. Then sits down besides him. Makes sure to bump him roughly as she does.

Her way of drawing him back into the present.

With some measure of surprise, Jeralts realizes the day had slipped away from him. Night splitting tendrils over the sky; reds, oranges, and deep blues snaring clouds.

“I heard you were here alone. Apparently since this afternoon. And here I was, thinking we could talk about Gaspard,” she says and there is a heavy judgement in her voice. She looks around, the gesture a little too animated for his stoic daughter to be genuine, “It’s not like you to vanish before a mission."

She turns to the tombstone. Regarding it like a foreign enemy to be carefully approached.

“Who’s that?” she asks but he thinks she already knows.

“Your mother."

There is no surprise in her expression. Only curiosity. Then caution. Her eyes drop to the ring, lingering for a moment before she reaches for his whiskey and drinks straight from the bottle.

“And what brought this one?” her tone is flat. Makes her question a command instead. Demanding to understand the problem so she could move to fix it.

“Sometimes, it helps to reflect,” he says and her eyebrow twitches.

“I see,” she says.

Holds her hand out for the ring.

Though he, inexplicably, thinks to resist at first, he drops the ring into her palm. She examines it as if appraising a weapon. Turns it in her fingers, lets it catch the fading light. Raises it up to her eye line and then peering through.

“She wasn’t a tall woman was she?”

“No,” Jeralt replies and the space between them fills with memories.

The moment of shared solace familiar to them.

He remembers Guardian moons spent in the Kingdom. Their noses red with the Faerghus chill as they half-watched the snowfall. Sharing Kingdom vodka and roasted pheasant. When he’d regale her of tales of her mother tossing snow from the church balconies over his head and horse.

Remembers Harpstring moons in Derdriu shared on the docks. Their fishing lines unattended, as they shared sweet wine and fried chicken. He would caution her of pricking her fingers - even when she far too old for the warning - as her mother was wont to do.

Remembers Red Wolf moons in the Empire with beers and spicy dango. When he’d chuckled over Spice Festivals her mother had been incapable of tolerating.

Long nights of whispered stories. Where the stillness and silence had pried them from his lips. Where he dared to speak of a wife he would never be through grieving. Him desperately carving out a space for her. Willing her to fit somewhere she no longer belonged.

And Byleth would allow him. Sip her own drink and close her eyes. Lending an ear.

Not knowing the grief for her own mother.

But willing to share solace.

“Come on,” he says gruffly, holding his hand out, “Give it here.

And she does. Presses the ring back into his hand gently and then places her hand over his closed fist. Squeezes. A clumsy attempt at comfort but neither of them are particularly good at that. His wife would laugh at them both if she saw. Would proclaim Bylead as her son because, like her, he was better at comfort. Knowing when to offer and when to withdraw. Who was prone to touches and gentle caresses.

_“Will you look me in the eyes now and tell me you did not wish she survived over them?"_

Jeralt’s fingers go clumsy as he puts the ring away. He tries not to let them shake as he uncaps Byleth’s flask, nearly fumbling it as he pours himself a healthy shot. The aroma smoky, almost medicinal. Like a cure. His lips curl at the thought. Knows that to be a dangerous path to tread.

He takes a sip and the burn lights his tongue, splinters in his chest, spreading out to the rest of his body. Sears away the question he had not answered.

“Not bad,” he says.

“It’s a rarity for the mercs to bring back something good,” Byleth says, “Maybe I should fall more often.

He punches her arm lightly. She’s never been terribly good with jokes. Too much her father’s daughter.

“I won’t,” she grunts, raising the Sword of the Creator.

Points it at the heavens.

“You said you would seek answers on your own. That’s fine … that’s fine,” she says it as if trying to convince herself, “But in the meantime, I’ll have to make use of this gift still.

_“Because Bylead won’t relinquish his.”_

Jeralt can read the unspoken words from his daughter.

“Gift,” he repeats and she makes a noise like a snort. Understanding the lie in that word.

Jeralt doesn’t think it’s his imagination when the cracks of the blade bleed red.

_Her heart,_ he thinks helplessly, eying the open gap of the sword handle. Now that he thinks it, the chasm reminds him of an open rib cage.

His stomach twists sickly. The thought of his wife as broken and –

_“Look me in the eyes now and tell me you did not wish she survived over them."_

He wipes his hand over his mouth, forcing the bile back, watching as his daughter swings the blade over their heads. The blade fragmenting into a long whip, snapping the air above them like a young dragon. The Crest of Flames lights the sky, centered within the circling blades, the glow as hauntingly heavy over their heads as a guillotine. Casting light and deeper shadows over his wife’s grave. Over his daughter’s face. The fire bearing down on her. Reaching for her.

A gift borne from –

_“Tell me you did not wish she survived over them."_

“C’mon kid,” he says, rising. Too quick. Too brusque, “You said you want to go over Gaspard. Let’s go the Knights Hall.

He doesn’t look back to see if she’s following. Can feel the questions from her like a burning blade.

_“Tell me you did not wish…"_

_“Tell me…"_

_“Tell me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little delayed chap this week but work has been severely cutting into writing time. 
> 
> Finally hitting Gaspard next time


	15. White Clouds: Mutiny in the Mist

Magdred is plain and Byleth imagines Gaspard to be much the same. Small territories along the border, meant to be ignored. Unlike Arianrhod and Rowe, which ran adjacent and knew themselves to be favored lands, capable of claiming defensive strength Gaspard and Magdred could not.

Byleth is loath to deem them boring already, especially with Ashe’s horse beside her. Thinks that might be a little rude and much too callous.

So she lets herself be distracted by Ashe who nearly vibrates out of his saddle. Lets him point out little things to her as they ride, his mouth running nervously, providing her a steady stream of information as if needing some way of getting the energy out. She learns the schedule of Gaspard crops. The small festivities for the Garland moon. The preparations for the Rite of Rebirth next month. The new wines reaching their peak when the Blue Sea star rose to the sky once more. 

All in all, Byleth has the impression the territories along the border are grey lands of simple houses and people who should have turned away from warfare. Comprised of mostly farmers and peasants more invested in their fields than warfare. 

_Modest_, that was the kinder word. 

She sees few bars in the villages and even fewer mercenaries. It’s a place to pause but not stop. There would be no missions to be pulled from tavern bulletins and no coin to be paid. The people are mostly farmers, intent on their fields more than anything else. She does not see many of them glance up; those who do, toss out respectful salutes. Only children run up to them, gawking with the air of someone seeing a fairy tale jump to life.

It’s only as they move closer towards the Gaspard border that the tensions start to bleed in. There are fewer people in the fields. More and more homes with only older men and women offering thin smiles. Their eyes knowing as the Knights take up residence on their lands. Thinly suppressed fear tinged with faint dislike. More and more homes with children too young for battle, who don’t speak of their parents but think of them constantly. Reading tension from the adults and quieting themselves in response. 

The Golden Deer and their latest sit-in - she was going to have to speak to Linhardt about that - Caspar, take to the situation better than Byleth had thought. Raphael and Ignatz make a point to speak to the families at each home they stay in. Raphael often tossing a boy or girl onto his shoulders or into the air until they squealed and laughed, their concerns momentarily forgotten. Sometimes he tosses them to Caspar who would roar and race through the house with them in his arms. And for a little while, shouts of children would shatter the uncomfortable stillness of the place. 

Ignatz doodles little pictures. Of faeries and heroes and powerful beings. 

The others, though more reticent, try their best. Hilda makes accessories, dragging Marianne alongside her, who delights her fair share of little ones with carefully toned down Blizzard spells. Lysithea teaches a few of the children to read. Leonie rolls up her sleeves and mends hoes, hunts rabbits, herds sheep, anything to lend assistance. And Lorenz … Lorenz lets them yell at him sometimes. Makes promises in his head. His expression pinched and full of open concern. And surprisingly, he works with them. Rolls up his sleeves and –

"Carrying out my duty as a noble, moving for the commoners."

“You don’t have to do that you know,” Byleth says to him and he only looks her in the eye and shakes his head. 

As for Claude …

She watches him flit around, a little ribbon of gold spooling out around absolutely everyone, lighting on the very edges. As if he does not care to be touched by sadness and brings others with him in his delight. He charms and winks, steals little treats like a mischievous fae thing to be placated by bribes, and overall manages to win himself quite a few favors. Tucks them all away like a little dragon with his hoard. 

On the final leg of their march, the night before they meet with Catherine’s troops, he seeks her out in the stables, whistling low when he sees her in the middle of pull-ups. He’s wearing two armloads of white rose garlands and a smile that reaches his eyes. When she doesn’t pause, he waves at her in greeting, making the flowers rustle.

“Nervous, Teach?” 

“What do I have to be nervous about?”

His eyes sparkle a little at the response as if she’s said yet another thing to amuse him and for a moment she considers dropping herself on his shoulders.

“You’re really not, are you?” he asks, shuffling close as he dared. Which meant close enough she brushes him each time she pulls herself up. 

Green eyes linger on her face, poking and prying for changes, always so keen on reading her emotions. With a sigh, Byleth drops herself beside him and he does not flinch. As if he trusts wholeheartedly that she will not bowl him over. As if Claude von Reigan were a trusting man and not only a greedy one.

His eyes drift over her arms. Her chest. Jumping immediately back up to hold her gaze when she shifts. He at least has the wherewithal to duck his head in some semblance of an apology. 

“Is that because you’re accustomed to missions and battlefields?” he asks, looking only at her face now, genuine curiosity ladening the words, “Fought off too many enemies to be worried, huh?”

“Something like that…”

His smile softens a little. Dimming. No longer the brilliant gleam of a showman - but a little private quirk brought by interest and something else almost genuine.

“Oh, did I guess wrong, Teach?” he nudges at her with his elbow, “C’mon, you’re not the type to indulge me with easy answers. Lay it out. Where’d I go wrong?”

“Haven’t you heard the expression curiosity killed the cat?”

“Haven’t _you_ ever heard satisfaction brought it back?” 

And he smiles like a well-fed feline still begging for scraps, angling his face up at her. Always angling himself to appear lower than her, sniping with sly smiles and wicked grins at a submissive angle. As if he were prey and not predator. 

Byleth sighs, walking away from him, throwing an answer behind her as she goes, “Nervous is facing down an army you cannot best. When you go to output more than you are capable. I do not think this is outside of my capabilities.”

Claude utters a laugh full of delight. From her words or the fact she had deigned to respond? She cannot tell. Regardless, he runs up beside her, pressing up close as if it were within his right and when Byleth steps away, stumbles and recovers with the unrelenting ease of a conman, with a twist of grace wrung from his very being as he runs up beside her again. Not as close as before but close enough the roses brush her bare arms. The barest tickle of blossom edges drawing goosebumps. 

“Is that all? Is this so beneath you?”

“Not what I said. I only said this was within my capabilities,” Byleth pauses midstep, watching him stumble to match her again. 

She flexes her hand, opening and closing her fist. Shifting her grip around a non-existent sword. Watching minute muscles pull and stretch over a strong pulse, her skin gleaming with sweat beneath the torchlights.

“It’s like a training field. When you hit a target over and over it becomes a thing easily done. It becomes simple. Ingrained in you. Do you worry about restringing your bow? Do you feel nervous about running laps?”

Claude hums, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “Not many people can say that about a real battlefield, Teach. What remarkable composure. I imagine it’d be terrifying facing you. No mercy. No hesitation.”

“Because you’re thinking of the battlefield as some end destination,” Byleth touches the Sword of the Creator on her hip, “Have you heard anyone say ‘the journey is more important than the destination’?”

“Another expression? You’re starting to remind me of my mother,” he says and then blinks. The faintest trace of discomfort in that admission. As if he had surprised himself with it. Unaccustomed to relinquishing information about himself. As quick as it had come, it vanishes.

“I heard it thrown around once. Some tavern in the Leicester Alliance. Only in passing. Not to be remembered. But I suppose it stuck with me. To me … I understand it as ‘I am made up of things I do every day.’ Swinging my sword, testing out strategy, pouring over maps and placements, sharpening my blades … Skill. Strategy. Strength. The end goal doesn’t matter.”

She doesn’t have to swing her sword to know it’s weight and heft. To understand the burn the Crest lent to her blood. To know how easily it can cut. 

“What matters is what I am capable of here. Now. And I understand well what falls in and out of my means. This …,” she gestures a little, a wide sweep of her arm to indicate Gaspard in the distance, “Is not beyond me. So, to answer your first question, Claude. No, I am not nervous. And if you intend to carry such fear with you to the battlefield, you should not be on one.”

“Oh? And if you had no choice?”

“Make it one.”

Claude sighs as he folds his hands behind his head, “Oh, how simple you make it seem, Teach. So this is the difference between heroes and mere mortal men.”

He shakes his head, the gesture loosening a few white petals. They cling to his lapel and shoulders as he sighs again. Exaggerated and full of longing. The picture he presents could come from a story book. A young prince wreathed in flora with a schemer’s smile and a fae’s cunning. The roses are a nice contrast wreathed around his face. Delicate white against the sharp line of his cheekbones, kissing the curve of his jaw. She thinks he’ll grow to be sharper, more clear cut. His nose and cheeks more pronounced. The smile tempered by age to become something handsome instead of boyish. It’s not a difficulty to understand the ease with which he’d grasped the attention of the townsfolk. 

“Heroes, huh? You’ve been reading too many Church fairy tales.”

“How blasphemous,” Claude says, looking around overzealously as if Seteth might emerge from the shadows to chide them both. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the green as vibrant as emeralds, “Careful, Teach. You never know who you might offend with such talk. Lucky for you, I’m your ever-loyal confidante.”

“Confidante?” 

“Hey, now, you wound me with your derision, Teach,” he tuts, “Who was the only one in the Deer you told about Ashe –“

Claude jumps when she crowds him, eyes going wide and startled as she leans in, her fingers tipping his chin to look her in the face. 

“Stop goading,” she says, “I know you’re not nearly careless enough to run your mouth. Not after the Mausoleum. So. Hush. I’ve already answered the questions you wanted.”

“True enough,” he doesn’t bat her hand away, only tilts his face, a prince anticipating a kiss, his eyes dark as they flick from her eyes to her mouth, “But you’re an endlessly fascinating study, Teach, and I can never ask enough.” 

She’s tempted to press further, to lean into his willingness and encroach on his barriers as she would have any man or woman that so spoke to her in a tavern. To push and pry as he did her, teasing out the limits of his restraint. 

With a huff, she swipes at his braid, makes it flounce and leap in the air, and pulls away. Unsurprisingly he follows. His eyes linger on her, pupil dark as he touches the end of his braid, teasing the strand between dexterous fingers, his gaze full of desire she doesn’t think he realizes yet.

“Do you never want something beyond your means?” he asks lowly, pitched in a whisper, like a secret confession.

“No.”

He looks at her for a moment. A gaze heavy and full of meaning. The feel of it on her skin making her prickle, twitching with a need to respond.

Claude turns his face upwards, to the heavy drape of stars, “Spoken like someone with true strength.”

She thinks he isn’t going to continue at first. His face still pointed upwards, gaze set far away from her for once. The reflection of the moonlight like a drape of lace against the profile of his face.

“What an impossible person you are. Y’know we can’t be that far apart - age-wise - but looking at you move. Your skill in the Mausoleum. The way you command us on training fields. I never thought someone like you could exist,” he says, his voice growing quiet and distant, “I thought we were similar. Back when we first met.”

Byleth thinks to reach out to him. A comforting arm on his shoulder. A pat on the back. Something to wipe the quiet contemplative tone he’d taken. It reminds her of the nights with her father. When weariness hung over them as blatantly as the stars. The air full of meaning and things unspoken. Fraught with a fragile peace that could be easily shattered.

She keeps her hand on her sword.

“I wasn’t exactly born into a life of luxury as a child,” Claude continues, “I was … different. That’s the best way of putting it. Resented. Hated. So I spent a lot of time running. Licking my wounds. Scheming. And ultimately plotting against my enemies. Going ass over backwards trying to stay ahead of them. Scrambling to leap out on top … so I thought we were the same. Strategists who have to be thirty steps ahead. A hundred. A thousand. Outrun enemies. Outpace even allies…”

He shoots her a sidelong glance, “But you’re different, Teach. It’s within your means to outmaneuver those who reach you. To outmatch those who clash their blade to yours even when caught off guard. How enviable. I wonder what it must take to walk beside you.”

_“It was necessary,” Bylead says and the look in his eyes is terrible. Full of grief and stubbornness. Thinking of a truth he refused to face. Her brother pieced together by his simple desire to run after her even in this –_

“Teach?” Claude peers at her, confusion and then concern creasing his brow.

He was growing damnably adept at reading the change in her expressions. His hand hovers over her arms, not touching but near enough she can feel the heat of his palm.

“Kids.”

Byleth looks to her right. Sees Jeralt holding a bowl and some bread, walking towards them. His eyes drift to Claude. Then back to Byleth and she sees a little glimmer of something in his face before he can hide it. A look he’d worn since she found him by mother’s grave. Thinking secrets he could not tell and holding grief she could not share. Of a burden, she could not carry. She blinks and for a moment, under the dim light of the moon, he looks so aged and lost in time Byleth feels a keen lance of uncertainty. 

Grief like Bylead’s. 

Concern for something she couldn’t circumvent. Pain she was unable to spare.

Byleth twitches. Her mouth barely moving with her next words, falling on Claude’s ears only, “Something beyond my means, huh?”

The white roses crinkle as he bumps her gently. A look infinitely soft, full of understanding. As quickly as it’d come, it winks out like a star falling towards earth. 

He pulls himself together, drapes a persona over himself once again as he snaps a salute at Jeralt, student and trickster once more.

* * *

Thunderbrand is hideous. 

Bleached bone white. 

A carcass on display. 

It looks like a body brutally slain. Cruelly shattered. The pieces on both sides of the blade, a person’s broken rib cage. The tip of the hilt, their torn throat. 

Against Byleth’s hip, the Sword of the Creator vibrates, a tremor like an earthquake. As if screaming in protest. She tightens her hold. The handle seems to melt into her touch, she swears she can feel something boiling beneath her skin. Writhing worms beneath decaying flesh. She grips the handle, aiming to force it into stillness with her will alone and though it takes some doing, she, at last, manages to silence the tremble of her new blade.

“Professor,” Catherine greets, wearing a grin unbefitting a wielder of a reaper’s blade. 

She comes closer and Thunderbrand comes with her. Too close suddenly. Byleth hates the way Thunderbrand looks beside her sword. Hates the way they seem to fit. A neat collection of morbid parts.

“Hope you’re everything they made you out to be,” Catherine says as she extends a hand, her blue eyes clear and brilliant as a summer sky. 

“Likewise,” Byleth says, her words stilted but only to those who understood her. 

Jeralt looks at her over Catherine’s shoulder, a question in his eyes she does not reply to. By her side, Claude angles himself, leaning towards Catherine, as if ready to step between them. The rest of the Deer alongside Caspar and Ashe are at her back, crowded by the Knights of Seiros, the students leaning in to marvel at a legend.

Byleth makes herself take Catherine’s hand.

Makes herself focus on the Knight instead of her sword. 

“I’ve heard much about you,” Byleth says, pretending she is not imagining her hands on Thunderbrand’s hilt. The thought strumming up such discordant displeasure she wants to vomit.

“Likewise,” Catherine says back, her tone and voice pitched to match Byleth’s. A little tease given the way Catherine grins, “You remind me of someone.”

Her expression turns considering as she relinquishes Byleth’s hand. Then mischievous. Byleth narrowly steps out of the way of her reach as Catherine goes to swing an arm around her. Ducking her sword more than her. 

“Yeah, exactly like her,” Catherine laughs and it’s a rough sound, stirred from a woman who did not much care for limiting herself. She laughs with her whole body. Her amusement softening her stance and it gentles some of the dislike in Byleth. Grants her a moment of clarity unclouded by base emotion.

_“It’s at least peaceful here,” Shamir says, closing her eyes as she leans against the tree bark, “No idiots trying to grab me for hugs.”_

_Shamir in a rarely talkative mood. Byleth lifts a flask to her in response._

_“I’ll drink to that.”_

_Surprisingly, the mercenary accepts. The two of them trading sips from Byleth's flask. Shamir pretending she isn’t watching the students run their drills like a hawk. Byleth pretending she does not understand Shamir’s purpose in sitting in on the class._

_Both of them blind and deaf to the other woman’s abilities. Mercenaries from different hires existing in parallel, careful not to cross. _

_They watch Caspar lunge and duck under trees, weaving through the terrain with surprising maneuverability. Nearly adept enough to keep up with Ashe. Notice the way Ferdinand insists on standing his ground in an open field, urging enemies at him first and foremost. Understand the way Edelgard pushes him forward like a trap. Sees Hubert on the edges around him, ready to spring. _

_Shamir doesn’t make notes. No reminders for herself. Nothing physical to be found in the event something went wrong. Instead, Byleth sees her tick information in her mind, one steadily filling scroll locked forever in the cavernous reaches of her head alone. A mercenary trained as a spy and a good one at that._

_Byleth knows mercenaries like her. Ruthless. Straightforward. The best sort of partner. Steady and unfaltering. The type with well-defined boundaries who asked no questions and requested you do the same. A clear cut, simple relationship. _

_Not for the first time, Byleth thinks it was an unfortunate truth that they shared different employers. _

“Let’s hope you and I get along just as well,” Catherine says, looking as if she is ready to pounce again. 

As if they were rowdy customers in a closing tavern. Her, too full of drinks and too easily amused. 

“I imagine we’ll get along about the same,” Byleth replies, shifting her weight in anticipation of another lunge.

“You’re not how I imagined you,” Claude says, cutting off another attempt, tying Catherine’s attention to himself as he slips between them, “I’d heard you’re intimidating enough to silence the howling winds.”

“Yeah, even people in the Empire know the name, Thunder Catherine!” Caspar adds, pushing forward, his fingers hover over Thunderbrand’s hilt for a moment before he catches himself.

“But to carry a Hero’s Relic … how did you come by it?” Lorenz asks, “Such things are typically passed down through the bloodlines of the 10 Elites.”

“Yeesh, Lorenz, show some respect,” Leonie huffs, “You can’t be implying she swiped the thing are you?”

“By no means. I was only surprised. Relics are not typically wielded by just anyone.”

“A wielder is a wielder,” Lysithea says, “The Professor is proof enough you don’t need a noble birth to possess a Crest.”

Her lips curl a little in displeasure. 

“Well, the Professor is just like that,” Hilda says, waving her hands, “Otherwise a Relic implies nobility. Right, Marianne?”

“O-oh, um –“ 

“Does that matter?” Catherine says, her tone broaching on defensive. Marianne flashes her a startled look and ducks a little closer to Hilda. The laughter smears away from Catherine’s face, her expression going rigid.

“Of course not,” Caspar responds before anyone else can, shifting a little at the new tension, “You’re a legend. A hero! When I was younger, my friends and I would fight over who got to pretend to use Thunderbrand whenever we would play. To think we get to fight alongside someone like you today…”

Catherine’s expression goes steadily stiffer. A little twist of disdain turned inwardly flitting over her features for a half-second before she folds it away. She plasters a smile on her face. 

“Is that so?” she asks, her hand on the hilt of her blade. 

She scans the students, falling on Ashe who twitches, his knuckles going white over his bow. There’s a look of cold fury in him, the frost in his face like winters in Faerghus. When the air hurt to breathe, splintering in the lungs.

There is a moment between them. Catherine’s mouth parting on unspoken words. Her eyes drifting towards guilt, moving towards an apology. And Ashe turning himself away from it all, his face and body condemning, demanding her distance. 

And then it is gone.

Catherine’s lips twist as she leans back towards Jeralt instead, “I wonder if the kids actually saw us fighting, those games would be still as popular. What do you think, Jeralt the Blade Breaker?”

A little flicker of displeasure flashes on Jeralt’s face, better hidden and unnoticeable to all but Byleth.

“Guess we’ll find out today,” Jeralt says mildly.

“Ha - well,” Catherine turns towards castle Gaspard, her thumb over the edge of her hilt, her expression settling into something grim, “Guess so. Funny how things catch up with us.”

“Captain! The enemy is approaching!”

* * *

Ashe,” Byleth breathes out as the Knights and her students move to join up with her father, “Are you going to lunge for Catherine?”

“No.”

He looks at her, defiant. Fierce determination closing over unsteady fury and tense anxiety. Encapsulating it in a bitter herb he swallows down.

“I haven’t forgotten my goal,” he says, taking her arm. 

She does not remark on the tremble in his touch, electing to see only the determination on his face. 

“Very well then. At your command.”

* * *

The fog was tangible on Jeralt’s skin. An unnoticeable touch until Jeralt thought on it. Slick fingers dragging over his arms, the moisture webbing about him, threatening to swallow him up. The fog plumes like a breath, white slipping between their groups like a live barrier, kissing the green of the forest, drawing pale arms over tree bark. 

A live thing that betrayed the presence of –

_Mages_, Jeralt shifts, raising a hand, knowing the gesture will be lost soon as the fog grows thicker.

His mercenaries move to reposition themselves behind them. Shift to line up the edges of their groups, always ensuring a Knight of Seiros stood with them. There were others moving amongst them. Not the sounds of a full army but a group smaller. Thinking to surround them and catch them off guard. Footsteps and armors clattering at the very periphery of their group.

“Wait for them to enter your field of view,” he hears Catherine shout, the fog swallowing her up, “Take down anyone who breaks through and push through!”

Thunderbrand snaps at the fog as she swings, the glow of it like hellfire as she drives it through a soldier who’d broken through the fog. The blade whispers and snaps through the air, the glow fast growing dimmer. 

“Death to the false goddess!” someone shouts - idiotic - and one of Jeralt’s mercenaries drives an axe through his skull, splintering bone. 

Leonie lunges past him, her lance swinging in a near imitation of his movements, puncturing another soldier who’d leapt at them from within the fog.

“Heh, like old times, Sir Jeralt,” she says, a grin on her face that could pass for a grimace as she unhooks her lance from a dead man’s skull. The man wears a little symbol for the Western Church, the shaped warped beneath the stain of his blood. 

Mage fire and lightning snarl at Jeralt’s cheeks. He yanks Leonie out of the way, remembering Sauin very differently. He slashes his lance, disarming another assailant, rolling his shoulders to allow an arrow to snipe the man out. 

“We’ll do what we can here!” the house leader – Claude shouts at Catherine as he draws up beside Jeralt, an arrow notched as he scans the fog, green eyes bright as if he can see through the magic.

There’s a charge in his tone, a boy’s command going unanswered by those more battle-hardened. With a shout, Jeralt tugs at his own knights and mercenaries. Draws them closer by them just as Claude pulls in the Deer, deftly weaves students between Jeralt’s forces. Ensconcing them in the protection of others. Holding himself much the same, in the range of Jeralt’s lance but not enough to deter his swing. 

“Run if you’re gonna die,” Claude calls out to his classmates, winking at Jeralt, “I know I will.”

And with that fires a rapid bout of arrows, urging Raphael to break ahead, his battle cry ringing out like a distraction. The flurry draws forth more men. The Western Church tearing from the trees, their magic and blades finding matches instead of simple targets.

Cutting Gale bursts from Marianne’s fingers, forcing back the fog magic, tearing into foes that dared come her way. Lysithea and Lorenz enshrouded in dark magic, their fingertips burning with their spells before launching them to dispel Fire and Bolganone thrown their way. Raphael and Hilda hold a neat line alongside men and women with twice their experience, cleaving through enemies with brute force as Ignatz swings Heals and supporting Blizzards, moving with a nimbleness Jeralt had not expected.

Leonie presses up against his side, a form too tall, holding the wrong weapon – 

Byleth's absence is a needle-prick against Jeralt’s chest, a little sliver of anxiety he pushes away. Knowing she has no need for it. 

_“Her heart,” Rhea says_ and Jeralt swings his lance with a ferocity unbecoming a knight, barely restraining the Crest threatening to break the surface of his skin.

Claude tugs at him, an easy smile on his lips that does not reach his eyes. Makes a gesture Jeralt recognizes as Byleth’s hand signs.

_“Enemies at the back. Swinging around.”_

“For a rebellion, we’re sure missing a lot of rebels,” Claude comments with a wink, darting away like a shot, splintering from the path Catherine had carved for them.

Armor and blades clang like bells. Shouts and cries rising like hymns in the cathedral. One of the Knights goes down, an arrow in his thigh and in retaliation one of Jeralt’s mercenaries hurls a hand axe in that direction. A thick gurgle rumbling from the fog, alerting them of a death. 

Mage fire then lightning. 

The snare of a blade. 

A rush of an arrow.

Jeralt goes where Claude had gestured, drags his hand up through the fog to bring his men with. Falling into warfare, stepping into battle, letting the familiar shape fall over his shoulders.

* * *

_“Lonato will come to greet her,”_ Ashe had said and though he’d anticipated, bearing witness stirs a pang in his heart nonetheless.

“For Lord Lonato!”

Ashe grits his teeth against a civilian, arrow gone from his bow before he can think. He runs out of their dying reach, not daring to look at their face. Cannot allow himself the precious time to determine an identity. 

They had delved slightly into Empire territory, swung narrowly around the Western Church armies, and now, along the border of Gaspard, Ashe can see them. Lonato's personal forces. Mind racing as Ashe picks out targets, his heartbeat a cacophonous harmony in his ears as they are forced to engage a smattering of rebellion forces at the very edge of battle.

Men and women scarcely armed, brandishing their lives like weapons for a lord lost in grief.

Ashe can see faint shapes and shades in the fog behind them, moving like ghosts, teasing at the edges of Catherine’s forces, beckoning her forward. Can see the barest glimmer of Thunderbrand flash in the thick of the fog. Coaxing her towards Lonato’s vengeance and understands the path they want her to take from there. Relived they have outpaced her. 

Ashe grabs for Byleth, guiding her forward, ignoring the blight of battle beneath his feet. Deaths tainting the ground he ran.

He guides Byleth over grounds he knew as a child. Over dips and crests of the land, he had sprung over with news of his acceptance to Garreg Mach. Dipping through the edges of a forest he’d once played hide-n-seek. Towards the edges of –

Ashe yelps as Byleth swings him out of the way, flailing at her side as a scythe rips the air where he had once stood. She shoves him aside like a dead weight, hard enough he drops his balance. Byleth lunges forward to meet the enemy without him. Engaging before he can right himself. Ashe's arrow lurches up to find nothing but Byleth’s back as she slots herself between him and their assailant. Both refusing his aid and preventing a charge at him.

Ashe feels his breath hitch.

Death, himself, grins down at them, wearing a mask cursed with a wicked smile that tore into the corners of his cheeks. His figure carving out a dark shape against the backdrop of the fog, astride a black stallion lent from the eternal flames. Ashe understands warhorses and this one is massive. Built and bred like a weapon, it’s bulk and powerful legs impressing a strength that makes Ashe’s knees buckle. 

“Move,” Byleth snarls, reaching behind her to shove at him again and the knight takes the opportunity to lunge.

Sparks burn the air between them as their blades clash. The jagged teeth of the Sword of the Creator meeting the wicked edge of the man’s scythe. 

In the corner of Ashe’s eyes, he sees another Crest light the forest. A buckle of wind - the edges of Cutting Gale - snapping the air about them. Catherine growing closer. Drawing in. He looks to Lonato’s forces. Can pick his father from a crowd anywhere. Can see him raise his arms. Lowering them in a command. Moving out the rest of his troops as he goes for his stallion.

A Crest explodes at Ashe’s back, flames bursting across Byleth’s skin, making her a bonfire as her sword bisects the air.

“Move!” she roars this time, her voice a rumble, shaking the very earth with her command.

He goes.

Hears the clatter of blades just above his head and turns a blind eye to it. Understanding Byleth had moved to block for him. Lent her aid in carving out a path he had asked for.

He runs, closing his eyes and ears to the battle around him and the many parties that made up the field.

His eyes trained only on his father on –

“Lord Lonato!” 

“The enemy has caught up! They – Ashe?”

Shock fragments Lonato’s voice, lancing through the words, scattering the strength of his command. But he grasps it back at once as if grasping the reins of a skittish horse. His jaw goes firm. His expression drawing closed, shuttering over his surprise. A knight honed by self-discipline.

“Ashe, what are you doing here?” Lonato asks, voice cautious and pitched low. A slow understanding passing over him.

“Lord Lonato, please - I beg of you. Surrender.”

Resolution hardens blue eyes, crystallising into something solid and full of jagged edges.

“So you would align with Rhea.”

“No! I only came to understand your reasons. For this ... this,” Ashe gestures behind him, a roil of something bitter and dreadful in his heart, "Meaningless bloodshed."

“Meaningless? My reasons?” Lonato breathes out a low laugh, the sound rattling like chains in the air between them, “Rhea has desecrated the Goddess. Painted herself a golden idol touting false ideologies. And stolen a child from me while claiming martyrdom. My reasons are just, Ashe.”

“No! Dragging the townsfolk into this isn’t right,” Ashe retorts, “This isn’t – this isn’t something Christophe would have condoned.“

A lance scores the air, swinging at Ashe’s face, the tip drawing a trail of blood over Ashe’s cheeks as he leaps backward. The few knights beside Lonato shifting forward in defense of their lord. 

“Do not speak his name, Ashe,” a low growl of warning, “Not my son – do not tarnish his memory like –“

“He was my brother too!” Ashe shouts, the words ripping from his throat, tearing from him, an old grief falling between them, “I knew him too. I knew what he was like in life. And I know he would have never condoned the death of so many in his –“

An arrow strikes his thigh. Making him fall. The ground rising to greet him. 

Surprise. Shock.

Then pain. 

It arcs through him like lightning, flaying the skin from his bones. Hurt, an acidic burn in his chest, marred by disbelief. 

The shadow of a lance rises above him.

“If that is how you feel, prepare yourself. I intend to put an end to this.”

The arc of a lance swung perfectly, carried by a knight who never slacked on his duties or training. Someone he had once hoped to become. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel like im slowing down or im getting more critical  
each chapter's suffering about a million rewrites before im satisfied ಠ▃ಠ 
> 
> will probably wrap up gaspard next chapter and then .... more dimileth (dimilead in this case?) shenanigans?
> 
> *roll arounds* i wanna write smuttt and sappy things  
how do normal slow burn authors do thiisssss (ಥ⌣ಥ)


	16. White Clouds: Lord Lonato

“Do not think of interrupting,” Death says with Jeritza’s speech pattern, a slow stilted manner of speaking as if he had learned from books instead of people.

He carves through one of his few soldiers in his lunge for Byleth, his entire body alight with eagerness. 

A lifetime of facing Jeralt keeps Byleth from withdrawing, drops her stance low, points her blade at the horse’s neck as it charges.

Her Crest scales over her like a second skin, drawing up on the surface like gooseflesh. The Sword of the Creator shoots out, its many sections rattling as it drives into the horse’s throat. 

A scream tears from the beast. Shaking the air. The cry of a banshee preceding death. 

The horse lurches backward at the first bite of her sword. Makes her strike a shallow one instead of a deadly one. The motion yanks her forward as well, following her blade. Dirt and mud grit beneath her feet, lending no aid in holding her ground. 

The horse turns on her, breath coming in thick bellows. Eyes roving and enormous. White frothing at the corners of its mouth. Giant hooves gouging deep trenches as it draws her into the range of the scythe.

Byleth takes a section of the sword against her palm, pulls it up to block Jeritza’s scythe. The back of her sword digging painfully into her hand. Electricity trembles up her forearms at the force of the swing. She twists, aiming to deflect the weight of the scythe. Snaps her sword back together. Swings it high the second she gathers a breath, feeling a give beneath her, the Sword of the Creator biting deeper in the horse’s neck, sliding its teeth through the previous injury. Sweeping over the horse’s side, streaking over its rider’s leg armor and sliding off.

The scythe carves into her cheek, swing going wide as the horse stumbles and Jeritza readjusts with a low growl, rips at her shoulders as she dodges low. Pain rumbles in the muscles of her back as she slices at the thick tendon of the horse’s leg, tumbling out from beneath the beast as it goes to its knees. The weight of it, a phantom burden against her shoulders, slowing her retreat.

Jeritza is upon her at once. A wolf falling on prey. 

Leaps from his horse with impossible nimbleness, as if the armor weighed no more than feathers. The red eyes in the mask gleam, Death himself rising to greet her. 

Byleth chokes as the handle of the scythe digs into her throat, feeling the bruises come over her as she falls back. Swings her leg up to kick him away. Following with the furious swipe of her blade, withdrawing when he dodges.

She could see a lifetime of development in his form. No weaknesses to take advantage of. No openings in his guard.

Tension in his legs.

Set to spring.

A twitch of his fingers. 

Steadying his wrist.

“Come!” he loosens the challenge.

They fall at each other as two blades. Mere weapons with no thought for anything else.

Battle-forged. 

War hardened.

They meet in collisions. Each one like a bloom of thunder. 

Full of pain and blood.

Each one reaching for life with a bandit’s greed, simultaneously refusing to recoil from death.

Byleth punches his mask, her knuckles splitting with the force of her blow. Sweeps left as his head snaps back, her blade going soft into its whip shape, yielding and bending with her as she twists up the side of him. Striking for the head just as he breaks into her chest with the shaft of his scythe. Throws her to the ground just as she knocks the mask from his face. 

Breathing becomes a talent on the edges of her reach. She gasps for air, unable to draw it back into her lungs. Her vision blurring as her boots skid the ground. Precious seconds she cannot afford to lose. Gravity reaches for her. Draws her into its grasp. 

The scythe soars overhead, the wicked curve of it just barely missing her throat. The weapon twists in its path, weightless in Jeritza’s hand, marking out a serpentine current in the air as it redirects with impossible ease. Strikes her down like the wrath of a higher being. 

An iron weight against her sword.

She can feel Jeritza’s breath in a snarl as he bears down on her, pressing her into the ground, the blade driving forth, hungry for her neck. 

Byleth breathes fire, calling for her Crest, feels it burn at her, snapping at her limits, threatening to overwhelm. Something painful clutching at her chest, echoing the burn in her lungs –

In the distance, Ashe cries out. 

A scream bright with terror, torn in half by an agony that sunk too deep in the core to be anything more than –

Byleth’s Crest _erupts_. 

Fire, the heat of it like the eternal flames, exploding from her. Detonating the grounds. The heat tearing at her skin, flaying her alive, seeking a form and finding no offering besides hers. 

She shoves Jeritza aside with a strength bleeding out from the core of her. The effort so light she nearly stumbles, surprised by it.

The scythe carves at her side, a brilliant bolt of pain splintering through, as she twists just enough to catch a glimpse of Ashe falling, his grey hair caught in the wind as he went, the tail of a shooting star.

Miscalculated.

She’d miscalculated. 

Again.

Ashe’s cry is an echo in her heart, a distant pained thing she had not expected to hear when he’d run towards his father. 

She had – 

She had expected a surrender. Knows deep in her heart Jeralt would have had he seen them running, knows –

_You absolute FOOL._

Reprimand rings in her mind, an oath tearing from her mouth as she spirals around to force Jeritza from her. 

“Move!” she roars, a cry rivaling Raphael’s warcries, piercing the skies above as she shoves back against the knight. 

A near echo of the Mausoleum.

Fury guiding her arms as she swung up, the teeth of her sword clawing through his armor, sinking deep enough to eat at flesh. The sword twists and lunges like a live thing, guided and pushed by her anger, nearly alive in her hand, delighting in the battle, dancing under the song of her rage. It laps at the thick rivulet of blood across Jeritza’s chest, seeking to mete out another injury.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees something flash.

Lonato raising his lance. 

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. Not his son - how could he possibly think to –

“No,” Jeritza’s voice echoes from behind her when she turns and she gasps, a wet ragged thing as his scythe carves at her side, lining over the first injury, him bearing down on her with enough force to bring her to the ground. 

His knee digs mercilessly into her back and she can feel him moving. Rearing back for a strike. She whips her blade behind her, forcing him to roll off her, whisking out a thin rivulet of blood in the collar of his armor, just below his throat. She springs up the second his weight leaves her back, adrenaline dampening the burn in her sides. 

“You and I are destined to fight. You cannot allow yourself such distractions,” he shouts, something eager and hungry in his voice as if battle were his only sustenance, “I will not be robbed of another battle!”

Byleth inhales sharply, feeling the burn of her Crest. Something like smoke dancing in the roof of her mouth. A spiced heat lighting her tongue as she reaches for the power within her. Feeling it boil like an unwatched kettle, rising up and up to greet her. Something just as hungry as Jeritza behind the thick rush of power, a sensation twisting her stomach, skeletal arms of greed rushing over her body, aching to claim. Sweeping over her back. Her arms. Lending her strength. Blunting the pain in her side and shoulder. 

As if from a distance, she watches her Sword section out. The individual pieces swirling around her with a force beyond her swing. Matching the arc of the scythe. 

The scythe glimmers in what little light the fog offers and then gleams as a flare of sunlight strikes the black edge. The tip caressing the skin of her throat, just above the artery, drawing a thin –

Jeritza’s blade goes sideways. His face twisted with the force of the hit. 

“Professor!” Caspar’s gauntlets flash in front of Byleth’s eyes, the claw unfolding from its fist, grasping at her arm, shoving her, “Go!”

From behind, Catherine lurches out. The pale tendrils of the fog dissipating around her shoulders, trailing witch fingers over the silver of her shoulder armor. Thunderbrand screams as it rips at the air, one long mournful howl as she swings at Jeritza who meets the sword uneasily.

“Begone!” he snarls, “I will not be so robbed again!” 

A Crest Byleth doesn’t recognize lights the air above him. Low enough over him, it casts a ghastly hue against his cheeks as he rushes at Catherine who reacts in kind. Her own Crest splitting the air behind her head as she runs at Jeritza. An arrow cast on a target. 

Someone shoves at Byleth and she remembers.

_Ashe._

“I brought Catherine. I know you said keep her to the other troops but Linhardt said to. Said you’d be careless. Run ahead. Reckless. And dammit you were – I can’t believe you proved him right. Do you know just how he’s going to gloat about this? Or yell?! You haven’t seen him upset, that Mausoleum … oh man, the Mausoleum really got to him. And you - you really don’t wanna see him upset like that –“

Caspar’s mouth runs like a spooked horse, the words falling from his lips in sharp rapid-fire staccato beats though he doesn’t seem to hear himself. Something panicked and lost in his face as he goes to shove at her again.

“Shit shit shit, I know I went against orders. I can’t - I don’t – fuck, go!”

And Byleth is already moving. Knowing to take her openings, turning her gaze –

* * *

Ashe goes to his knees, rolling out of the way of the lance. His breath hitching. Not solely from exertion. The sound contorts into a sob as it bursts in his chest. Something wet and hot blazes against his cheeks. Tears blurring his eyes and his first shot is wide, unbecoming of the form Claude had shown him when teaching him close counters. 

He cannot find himself to be too regretful. Relief burning in his chest as the arrowhead nicks Lonato’s cheek instead of notching in his throat. Just a little scratch against a weathered face that used to brush Ashe’s in a hug. 

Ashe scrambles to a stand, dropping harshly down on one knee, stumbling in his blind attempt to flee. The pain in his thigh cresting over him in thick waves. 

“Come Ashe!” Lonato shouts, his face sallow, twisted into something Ashe did not recognize.

Lonato presses forward, the step like a condemnation, his blue eyes sightless and blind in his vengeance. Seeing nothing of the present but only the past. Lost and drowning in a place Ashe could not reach. A set determination hanging in the deep grooves of Lonato’s mouth and the dark bags beneath his eyes.

“I will not be moved,” Lonato says, drawing resolution over his words, something wild in his face, “I will carry out my son’s justice. I will burn the false goddess from this land. There will never be another like me – no more children to be stolen by that witch and her followers!”

The lance drives into the ground between Ashe’s legs and in response, he fires two arrows, one striking Lonato’s shoulder and the other biting into a thigh. Barely enough for Ashe to pull himself out of the way of another swing. The lance puncturing the air beside him, herding him like cattle towards the three knights around them. 

“Lord Lonato,” Ashe gasps, shouting as strong hands yank at his hair from behind, forces him to look up into a face he knew. 

The vulnerability of his exposed throat draws terror to him, rattling in his rib cage like a trapped bird.

A knight who had once taught him to string a bow. Who had taken the blame when his sister broke a vase in Castle Gaspard on their first night. A woman who routinely bested him in chess. Laughed at him and his siblings when they raced on the castle grounds. 

Someone grabs at his leg and he knows that knight too. He’d bought Ashe a set of books just four moons ago. Gifts for his acceptance to Garreg Mach. 

Another behind him. A sword coming off the man’s hip as he steps forward and Ashe doesn’t want to look.

Faces he recognizes. People he’d trusted. 

Dismay and sorrow and terror grabbing for him. One mangled mass of limbs clawing at his heart, tearing in all directions.

The knight’s expression above him is unwavering, nothing resembling regret as she draws her sword. The point of it over Ashe’s neck like an executioner’s blade. Driving down towards him. Flashing in the sunlight. 

Death written on the edge of it.

A scream, bloated with pain rips from Ashe’s throat as he brings his bow up, gasping wetly as he just barely deflects the sword, feeling it whisper against his thumb as he knocks it aside. It swings wild towards the man holding his leg and Ashe slips from them with a thief’s evasiveness. Half-blind as he scrambles out of their grip, feeling the echo of their touch. Will carry those feelings forever. Ghosts of people he once knew. 

He twists to the side, firing a slew of arrows, biting his bottom lip bloody as one of his arrows finds a mark in a knight’s chest. Grief tearing at Ashe’s rib cage. Singing in his blood. 

Another arrow pierces his leg, breaking his retreat. The knights are on him like wolves. His hands slipping in the mud as he tears himself from them. Driven solely by base instinct. 

Feeling the cold fingers of death on his spine.

Understanding battle to be much different from the knights of his fairy tales. He shouts, vision going white for one hideously terrifying second as someone yanks at his hood. Snaps him backward. A fist drives against his cheek. Throwing him to the ground. 

At the mercy of his father.

Ashe’s nails bite the ground at Lonato’s boot. The bitter taste of tears mingling with the iron in the back of Ashe’s mouth. 

“I am sorry this is the way of things,” Lonato says, his voice like ice, dripping with cruel acknowledgment as he steps closer.

And his eyes are blue. Crystalline and bright. So like Christophe’s. 

Ashe can see the definition in Lonato’s face. A noble’s nose. A high brow. Wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Knows them to crinkle tight when Lonato smiles. Remembers the lift in Lonato’s mouth when he was full of mirth. Recalls warm summers when the sunlight struck them, the heat of the sun just like now against Ashe’s fingertips.

The lance raises.

Ashe knows the weight and strength of Lonato’s training lances. Recalls when he’d bore whaps and testing knocks against his arms and back and thighs as the knights looked on. Remembers training grounds, full of nothing at all but laughter and weightlessness. A time when Ashe did not know grief, could forget the cruelty of the world. 

A space full of contentment –

“Father, _please_.”

The lance jitters a little, a faint tremor in Lonato’s hand, just a fraction of a second as his eyes go wide and then –

His head snaps back. So hard, Ashe has one hysterical moment of fear that he’d witnessed his father’s death. 

“No!” the scream rips from Ashe, clawing his throat bloody on the way out.

And then a burn of fire. 

The spine of a dragon set alight whipping the air, displacing men and women with sheer strength.

A rattle like a ghoul.

A voice cast in judgment, holding incredulity and accusation like a blade. 

* * *

“What are you doing to your _son_?”

* * *

Lonato weighs next to nothing. 

A man of no worth. 

Byleth can see the pulse of his throat against the teeth of her sword. The fragile flesh of an aged man. Knows it would take nothing more than a twitch for her blade to sink through. To eat away at his life as he had attempted to take his son’s.

His son’s.

The thought makes bile rise in Byleth’s throat. An acerbic tang more cruel than any of Claude’s poisons. The knights about them shift, their intentions clear. Intent on protecting an unworthy master. Someone who –

Her blade lashes out before she can think. Turning sword into whip with barely a thought. Her sword a part of her. The two of them intricately tied. The blades rattle and whisper, another voice roiling beneath her skin. Asking for her next move. Intent on coaxing her next swing. 

Hatred is not an emotion she was accustomed to.

The taste of it against her tongue like ash. The feel of it in her belly, a poison eating away at the core of her. 

_Kill him._

The thought strikes her as an oddity. 

The Ashen Demon did not feel such thoughts. Had never had great qualms against death. No hesitation and grief for the task the same way her brother did - he felt enough for the both of them. But she similarly did not crave killing. Felt no enjoyment in the clumsy way corpses slid from her sword. No satisfaction in carving out holes in her enemies.

Death was only meted out when required. Dealt by someone displaced and untouched by a desire for it. It was something to be done. A chore sometimes. 

But this one.

This one she wanted to kill.

Hate blooming like a rose in her chest, a Garland Moon rose stained red as she stomps on Lonato’s leg, feeling the sickening crunch of bone beneath her leg. 

Old bones shattered so easily. 

He doesn’t cry out. Too much a knight to allow anything more than a low snarl of pain. But he cannot hide the effort of it. His weight drops more firmly against her, his breathing labored and difficult. Stuttering as his cheeks go red. Strain coming over him in a slow wave. 

Nothing in comparison to the hurt reflected in his son.

Ashe looks at them both, terror in his grey eyes. His face a mess. Torn and bloody, tormented with agony. Byleth watches as he slowly stumbles to his feet, trembling as he looks to the bodies around him. His breathing too sharp and too quick as he hovers. 

A bruised jaw. Arrows in his thigh. Blood staining his armor. 

Byleth snaps the lance out of Lonato’s hand, some sick pleasure coiling fingers around her heart when she feels a pop in his shoulders. 

“Vile witch,” he spits at her.

Hatred rips over his face as he curses. The look of a man unable to carry through his ideals but unable to relinquish them. Someone incapable of surrender. Who would seek death before he even thought on it.

Very well.

Byleth draws her hand back. Something dark beating within her. Urging her blade –

“No!” Ashe tackles her, stumbling too hard to take her to the ground.

Tears blot the back of her hand as he shoves her blade aside. He shoves Lonato aside behind him. Bracing himself between them as if the man had not attempted to take his life mere minutes ago. 

“Please,” Ashe begs, the words a fragile whisper, as if he lacked even the strength to speak them.

At odds with the boy who’d bore down on her the last few weeks with plan after plan. No trace of the steel determination of someone ready to carry out a difficult task. Ashe presses his face against her hand; blood, tears, and snot, wiping a filthy line against her arm as he wept.

“Please. Please. Please,” over and over, the prayers of a man on his last breath. 

* * *

There was something off about the Western Church troops.

Jeralt feels their retreat as if someone had burst a bubble. An abrupt break in the forces bearing down against him. Too sudden to be anything but calculated

The fog against his skin peels back, molting from him, and there’s a pattern to the way the fog vanishes he barely traces out. Abrupt drops of the spell signal the death of a caster but there are other drops as well, on the very corners of his army. The fog drawing speedily away from them all and then bleeding away. Dispelled. Followed by the barest trace of something metallic and burnt.

Jeralt glimpses another uniform, something darker with a different cut to the Western Church uniforms. It flashes across his vision and then disappears.

In the sky, a blaze lights the air, calling for his attention like a beacon and he recognizes the color, already running for a horse before the Crest disappears. He grabs for the reins of one bearing the symbol of Seiros, leaping onto the empty saddle. The Deer fall into step behind him with the rest of his mercenaries. Adapting as easily as the wild mares Byleth had likened them to. 

“Forward!” he shouts.

The Western Church falling from his mind. Spilling away as his thoughts turned to his daughter.

He sees her first at the border of Gaspard. Picks her out as if he were always searching for her. There’s a tension to her form. Full of stiff movements, guided by messy thoughts and uncharacteristic emotion. 

Sees Byleth raising her blade. 

Sees Ashe against her. Screaming a plead.

_“Stop!"_

* * *

“Put down your arms!” 

A familiar voice.

Jeralt.

Father. 

He shouts something again and Byleth looks up.

Sees him approaching with Claude. The group of them emerging from the forest - where had the fog gone?

Brown eyes find hers, flitting once to the man on the ground. Pinning her with understanding. A command rippling over Jeralt’s face as his horse slows.

“Surrender!” Jeralt shouts to the few members of Lonato’s forces still struggling, his voice clear enough and loud enough it carries over the field, “Lord Lonato has been captured. The battle is decided!”

Byleth sees Catherine approaching too. Jeritza nowhere in sight. At the sight of her, Lonato tries to lunge. As if he means to crawl to Catherine on his hands and knees and mete out his revenge.

“My son! You killed my son!” struggling to reach his lance, to push himself to his feet but Ashe is the one to still him, knee on Lonato’s back, holding him down with shaking hands.

“No more,” Ashe breathes out, more a plead than anything else, “It’s over.”

“No - release me - I will have my vengeance! I will not forgive those who struck down my son – gloried over his death. Celebrated his execution as a victory. Give him back – my son! My son!”

“What about Ashe?” Byleth hears herself say, understanding coalescing in her heart like a piece of coal. Burned down into something blackened and hateful.

Lonato doesn’t seem to hear her. She doesn’t think anyone does. Had barely heard herself. Jeralt bumps her back. A presence she barely notices. Her attention fixed on the Lonato. 

Writhing like a man caught in death’s grip. His eyes wide. Half mad with grief. 

“Release me, Ashe,” Lonato spits, “You would abide by their orders?! Would raise your hand against your kin for this witch?! Christophe would have wept. We thought better of –“

Byleth feels her knuckles split, acknowledging the pain absently. Her shoulder screaming in protest at the savage whip of her arm as she’d reared to strike. A thick blurt of blood streaming down her front. Down her arm. Something tears in her side, heated liquid spilling over her, sleeking down her leg. 

She doesn’t register the cry Ashe lets out, barely noticing him grabbing for her arms. 

Only knows she wants to do it again.

“You would never understand,” Lonato spits in her face. 

She draws her hand back. 

Knuckle throbbing with the urge to feel the bone of Lonato’s cheek shatter –

Another hit and it doesn’t make ebb the anger in the slightest. The wave of it slipping up the shorelines, rising fast. Threatening to overwhelm. She pulls back –

“Kid,” Jeralt rumbles, his hand curling over her wrist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh. A firm but gentle hold. There’s a strength to his grip and a heaviness to his voice, “Battle’s over.”

And slowly she feels the anger slip away from her. Hatred receding. The tides pulling back. Dropping down her waist. Away from her ankles, dragging lines in the sand, leaving her behind. Leaving only bone-weary exhaustion and only now does she register Ashe against her, a fresh wave of tears on his face. Drawing out a line in the dirt and mud on his face. 

_“No more,” Bylead says, his eyes sad as he holds her sword back. He makes a face at the brothers still locked in a battle, shakes his head as he tugs at her. Guiding her back to Remire, “This is enough. This much is enough.”_

“I lost my temper,” Byleth says, the words numb on her tongue.

“Yeah …. yeah, I know,” Jeralt says, his hand on her head, a familiar weight bearing down on her like a thick blanket. 

“I know, kid,” he says, voice low and gentle as a stream, easing the tension from her body. Eroding the anger.

Byleth drops her fist. 

Lets herself go limp.

Staring down at the shallow husk of a knight. Still spitting curses and worthless promises. Slinging insults that grow lower. Darker. Aiming at pain as they turn towards Ashe who bears them like a post in a storm.

“You are no son of –“

Jeralt releases Byleth then. Clamps a hand over Lonato’s mouth. Thumb digging bruises into his jaw.

“Hey now. Any more and I’ll be the one to lose my temper,” Jeralt says, something furious spinning out on a thin thread, tenuous and ready to snap. His voice dips lower, cold anger dripping from his words, crystallizing into stalactites as they fall, “From one father to another, that’s enough. Your children can hear you.”

A silence drifts over them. The madness seeping from Lonato’s eyes a little. Something like clarity shattering the blue. He looks to Ashe and for a moment it’s as if he is seeing him for the first time. Despair. Anguish. No words strong enough to name the look in his eyes.

Lonato bows his head.

Makes no move to resist as the knights take him away.

* * *

A healer guides Ashe away and he goes with his head bowed. His expression troubled and pained. Crying silent tears as the healer takes his arm. 

“C’mon,” Jeralt says, taking Byleth’s arm, “You too.”

She nods, her head feeling like a cloud. Her body weightless. As if she were still coming back to form. 

“Caspar,” she calls. 

Half-hidden behind Raphael, Caspar jolts. Steps out as if he hadn’t been hiding.

“… Tell Linhardt I want to speak to him when I get back.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

Caspar’s eyes dart to Byleth and then skitter away. He shifts, a little wince twitching his cheek when he does.

“Good job,” Byleth says, feeling weariness come over her like a hood. Feeling pain creep up over her. The ache in her side sharp as a winter morning, extending long reaches up and down her abdomen, the sensation fragmenting like ice over a frozen lake, “You came at the right time.”

“I –“ Caspar blinks, mouth working soundlessly, repeating her words. He bobs his head, “I … yeah, okay. S-sure thing.”

“Raphael, go with Caspar to get his leg checked out. He’s walking on a sprain.”

“W-what?! No, I’m not. You should be worrying about your – GAH!”

“C’mon buddy!” Raphael booms, lifting a flailing Caspar in a bridal carry, laughing as Caspar beats on his chest screaming to be let down.

The rest of the Deer approach then, Marianne and Lysithea coming to Byleth’s side at once. 

“Oh, Professor –“ Marianne’s face twists, concern turning into self-reproach. 

Her fingers press against Byleth’s side, soothing and cool. It sweeps up over the gash, a pulse of Heal pushing back the pain, gentling the ache. On Byleth’s other side, Lysithea does the same, her small fingers digging into Byleth’s arm as if in admonishment.

“You got too far away from us,” Lysithea tsks like a fretting parent, “You should know better than to do that. You were the one to tell us to work cautiously when surrounded by enemies on unfamiliar terrain. Honestly, what kind of Professor goes against their own lessons?”

“I remember I also taught you to take advantages where you could. I saw Lonato and I ensured the battle would end.”

“Ha – and what happened to ‘heroics are a fool’s death’?” Lysithea mutters under her breath, low enough that Byleth knows she does not intend for Byleth to hear her. The words dissolve into faster angry muttering. At odds with the steady roll of Heals over Byleth’s side and back. The warmth patching up stings and pangs Byleth hadn’t even noticed.

“I’m starting to rethink this whole strategist title, Professor,” Hilda says as she drops the head of her battleaxe in front of Byleth. She crosses her arms over the handle, frowning at Byleth, “You sure it’s not just luck?”

“Oh, Professor, I am sure Hilda means to say, it concerns us all to see you bearing such ghastly injuries,” Lorenz says. He regards her for a moment, making a face at the blood on her clothes and legs, and nearly topples Marianne as he reaches out, his own Heal sputtering over Byleth’s skin, a weaker hue that refuses to hold steady.

Lorenz frowns. Moves as if he intends to try again but Lysithea shoves at him.

“You’re in the way!” she insists, “Go sit down somewhere else. Can’t you see it’s crowded enough? Who do you think you’re helping with your pitiful Faith magic anyways?”

“I am merely –“

“Please, d-don’t fight,” Marianne pleads, her voice fluttering, lost beneath the other’s. 

“Enough,” Byleth says over them all, teacher again, drawing herself up as best she can. They all prickle. Hilda most of all, scarcely able to hide the flash of disapproval under her veneer of nonchalance, “The battle’s won.”

She eyes them all hard. Cataloguing injuries. They are relatively unscathed, bearing mostly scratches and bruises. Hilda has a gash on her shoulder, creeping behind her, a blow from the back. Leonie has a sluggishly healing head injury and her eyes don’t focus as well as she blinks at the healer leaning over her. Both Ignatz and Lysithea bear burns on their clothes and minor singes on their arms and legs.

“Go to the healers. Get yourselves checked out. We will debrief afterward. And then we can discuss our mistakes,” she says as if they are in a forest clearing outside of Garreg Mach, hardening her tone when she feels them shift as if ready to argue.

She presses more firmly against her father. Leaning experimentally to one side. Feeling a little stutter of pain. Jeralt makes a low noise of disapproval as her grimace. 

“Good job today. I’m glad you didn’t die,” she says and then nods, “Dismissed.”

A little sharp inhale from Lorenz that speaks of his disapproval but no one says anything more. Marianne and Lysithea pull reluctantly away from her, exchanging a glance.

“Same to you, Professor,” Hilda says, shouldering her axe, something else in her tone rearing its head, “Next time, you could stand to be a little more subtle when you vanish at the start of the fight. You’re going to make me think you were waiting on a chance to dump us in the dust.”

“Hey, now Hilda, quite an accusation to make,” Claude smiles as he strides in the middle of the group, gathering attention as if it were meant for him. He winks at Hilda, “C’mon, show a little sympathy for an injured patient. It all worked out in the end.”

“Hmph, I am too much a frail young lady to be left all alone on such a dangerous battlefield.”

“Oh, c’mon. You definitely did not come off with the worst of it,” he gestures at his cheek, to the little cut marked out against his skin, “What do you think? Makes me roguish and handsome? A man with a dangerous secret the ladies can’t stay away from?”

“Oh yes, the most dashing charlatan,” Hilda says. 

Her eyes say she hasn’t forgotten the previous topic but she doesn’t pursue it. Tips her foot against Lorenz’s when he opens his mouth and he, too, goes silent, frowning heavily at Claude, alight with disapproval. Claude wiggles his brows at the two of them, smile going a little wider.

“Your face marred by a former mistress you led astray. Rightfully deserved,” Hilda says, her tone turning playful. It doesn’t match her face. Her posture more rigid than Byleth had ever seen. 

“Ouch. Such sharp thorns from a beautiful flower,” Claude clutches at his chest, “Not even the finest blade crafted by Zoltan could match the sharpness of your tongue.”

“Are you done?” Lysithea snaps at the two of them, “Must you carry on with your childish snips here and now?”

“Aw, Lysithea - a little cranky today? Must’ve forgotten your nap with all the commotion. Sorry, next time – ow, ow! Wait! It was a joke! Marianne, Ignatz cover me!”

“C'mon," Jeralt says quietly, and Byleth lets him guide her away, gripping his hand like a lifeline.

* * *

“Dad,” Byleth says as they approach the healer’s tent and it drags up an old ache.

His daughter did not falter. Would rather reach into her own guts and stitch herself together than allow any glimpse of vulnerability. Particularly on a battlefield.

Jeralt catches Claude looking at them. Surprised to find concern there, unhidden and full of fierce protectiveness. As if the kid were capable of draping himself over Byleth and shielding the hurt. The house leader stiffens when his eyes meet Jeralt’s. As if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It lasts for only a second. Replaced by a winsome smile as Claude turns back to the students. Ushering them away, stirring up another argument, ensnaring their attention and keeping it trapped on himself.

“He was going to kill his son,” Byleth says and the judgment in her voice casts a dark shade over the words. He can read the disbelief in her face. Can understand her repulsion. 

Jeralt aches to reach out to her. To hide the vulnerability of her from the world. 

And so he does. 

Wraps an arm around his daughter, drawing her into his chest. Feeling a tremble go through her. A shudder of pain she hadn’t felt even when stepping on their first battlefield.

“Just like Remire,” she says, a low hateful whisper as her hand fists in his back. 

That last mission before the students had come upon them. A set of brothers ready to tear each other apart. A father who had welcomed it. Steepled his hands and sat back without a care. A cruelty of the world that Byleth, for all their travels, had never been able to accept. 

Jeralt feels her breath hitch, a little stutter translating to his palm as she takes in a shaky breath. His shirtfront remains dry but though she doesn’t cry, he can feel the load of grief bearing down on her slender shoulders. His children were so slender. Not huge soldiers, no fortress knights in the making. He can feel the bend of her spine. Brushes her hair aside as he had done when she’d fallen as a toddler. Unable to cry then. Still unable to cry now.

“Yeah … sometimes that happens, kid,” he says, just holding her, knowing her brother was infinitely better at things like this. Knew them to buttress each other, holding each other up, making up for his failings. 

He returns his lance to his back to bring both arms around her. It’d been a long time since he'd held his daughter so close. Remembers her as an infant, a toddler, a child - no, still a child. His child. He closes his eyes, breathing in smoke and iron. Aching to lend comfort. Strength. Aid. Anything his daughter would require from him. Anything to soothe –

_“Tell me you did not wish she survived over them.”_

_“You are no son of –“_

_No,_ Jeralt thinks, tightening his grip. The thought resonating in his chest. Ringing clear and true. 

_No, I don’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh lonato... i remember in game i thought if i sent ashe there would be a peaceful option  
... was not the case and ashe just suffered ;=; ((my baby boyyyy))
> 
> a more lighthearted chapter next time


	17. White Clouds: Interlude

“They loved you dearly,” the Professor says, his voice a low tide, running over Dimitri’s nerves. 

Bylead pats Dimitri’s hair, fingers combing through the strands over and over in a steady rhythm that makes Dimitri want to sink into the comfort.

The Professor is saying something else but Dimitri hears none of it, allowing himself to be lulled by the low rumble of words. Allowing them to drift over him in a cloud. He basks in the soft warmth of their embrace, the sensation like sunlight over his skin. The first thaw of winter. Spring creeping up around the corners. 

Dimitri’s hands tremble a little as they drift up Bylead’s back, emboldened when Bylead shifts and sighs in contentment.

_The Professor is deceptively lithe. _

Dimitri marks the thought in his mind like a page in a book. His fingertips drift up and over the arch of the Professor’s spine, over the soft hill of Bylead’s shoulder blades. Marking out cords of muscle and finding hidden blades. Feels out the gentle curve of Bylead’s waist, fitting his palms there as if for measurement. 

A part of Dimitri thinks to pull away and loosen his grip. Thinks to be not just embarrassed but horrified, for so blatantly groping the Professor like some lecherous scoundrel. A pang of propriety stirring in his chest but it feels so far away. A distant, worthless thought made weaker as Bylead goes loose in Dimitri’s arm. His head tipping against Dimitri’s shoulder. Lashes fluttering against Dimitri’s neck like a kiss as his breathing goes slow and deep.

The Professor is so soft, so _compliant_ in his grip, Dimitri cannot find the desire to let go and greedily, as if he were a young prince once more with no thought for others, Dimitri holds tighter. Buries his face into Bylead’s throat, breathing in through his mouth to hold the scent of something metallic and heated and male, until the need for air shook it loose again. His hands wander. Aching to feel something solid. Something alive. 

Dimitri shudders at the draw of nails down his spine, a little mewl of a whimper escaping into the air, fluttering high and delicate. Feels and hears Bylead’s responding growl. The noise ripping through Dimitri like a live current. 

“Professor,” Dimitri hears himself and some part of him thinks to be embarrassed at the fraught need in his tone.

“Yes?” 

Bylead’s lips draw over his throat. Followed closely by something warm and wet. Realization thuds heavy in Dimitri’s chest as Bylead’s tongue laves over his skin, raking up embers, drawing hot over a particularly sensitive spot behind Dimitri’s ear that sparks into flames.

“Please,” Dimitri groans. 

He whines, drawing back to plead, the words caught in his throat when he sees Bylead smiling. It’s just the barest lift of Bylead’s lips but his eyes are so soft, so warm, holding nothing but gentle contentment and easy affection. It warms Dimitri to the very core, a heat spreading quickly outwards from his chest. 

“How may I be of service, my prince?” Bylead rumbles and it draws a different heat. 

Something thick and heady. Desire and want drawing over each other in frantic waves, throwing Dimitri unsteadily off course towards something vast and overwhelming. Desire so frantic, it can only be described as hunger. As if matching his thoughts, Bylead’s eyes go darker, lashes casting a heavy shadow over them as he shifts in Dimitri’s grip. 

And then there are hands on Dimitri’s belt. Lips against his cheek, marking a slow path over Dimitri’s jawline. A calloused palm drifting along his hip. Fingers loosening his belt. Drawing his buttons apart.

Dimitri grabs for Bylead’s hand, a gasp rattling his entire being as he pulls it up. He thinks to mind his strength, knowing the terror of his power but Bylead twists out of his grip with senseless ease. 

“Oh, Dimitri,” and it’s said so softly, so full of wicked promise, a siren’s song begging for his submission and Dimitri … Dimitri –

He bucks, a startled cry stuttering in his throat as Bylead’s leg presses up between his.

“Won’t you let me be good to you?” Bylead hums and Dimitri whimpers at the slow roll of Bylead’s hips against his.

Ruts jerkily against Bylead’s thigh, heat twisting in his belly at the feel. 

“Let me –“

“Yes,” Dimitri breathes, trembling apart as his hips jerk out of his own volition. 

“Hm?” Bylead asks, surprise and amusement in his voice, his fingernails scratching another path down Dimitri’s neck that makes him shudder.

“Yes,” Dimitri moans, “Anything –“

"A dangerous promise," Bylead says, amusement rich in his voice.

A calloused palm caresses Dimitri's skin, the rough touch drawing fire like the strike of a match. Bylead’s thumb curves Dimitri’s hipbone, hand squeezing for a moment and –

What would it be like if that hand was holding him down to be taken?

And then blessed warmth curving over his –

Dimitri shoots up in bed, a cry barely stifled in his throat. He casts a frantic glance to the wall he shares with Sylvain, his entire body alight with humiliation as he slaps a hand over his mouth.

What would Sylvain have to say –

What would Fe–

He doesn’t want to think about them now. A part of him still humming in the dream. He whines at the feel of his other hand on his cock. Gasping wetly over the flesh of his palm and biting down when he realizes he’s hard. So much so it aches. Need rakes over his skin. Demanding. He twists his fist, holding the hand over his mouth tighter as sticky heat shudders through him. 

Imagining … imagining –

_“Shh, Dimitri,” Bylead says, the sound like a purr. _

_His hand is over Dimitri’s mouth as he bends him over the desk. Holding Dimitri silent. Holding back the frantic moans Bylead was drawing out with his other hand. _

_And he was smiling again, so delighted, so pleased. Someone leaning over a favorite, “Hush. Yes, just like that. What a good student you are –“_

Lust crests over him like a hood. His hand working frantically over his cock as he curls to the side of his bed, hair sticking to his forehead as he presses against his pillows. Faster and faster thinking about –

_“How may I be of service, my prince?”_

* * *

He was a boar. 

An utter beast. Shaped by depravity.

To so desperately crave affection when he was so undeserving. To draw carnal pleasure not only from someone he knew but from his Professor.

Felix was right about him. Always so capable of seeing right through him, straight to the jagged mess of his flaws and failings.

Dimitri bites his lip as he watches Bylead across the dining hall. The Professor was sharing tea with a small smattering of the Black Eagles alongside Annette and Mercedes. 

“This is new,” Ferdinand was saying, his voice rising above all others, ringing with pomposity as he presents Bylead with a small earthen teapot.

It was unpainted and unremarkable but Bylead touches the thing with the delicacy one would approach a long lost artifact. The look on his face is something Dimitri had not seen before. An intense concentration marked by interest, like a cat with a new toy. He says something Dimitri does not hear and it brings a smile to Ferdinand’s face as if Bylead had paid him the highest compliment. 

__

_“What a good student,” Bylead whispers in his ear, the feel of his lips so soft against Dimitri’s earlobe_. 

Dimitri lets go of his teacup before he can break it.

“Remarkable taste, Professor! I never would have expected with your mercenary –“

Dorothea snipes something, her expression pointed and stiff. She leans against Bylead’s arm, almost protectively as she says something sharp enough to make Ferdinand deflate. 

Perhaps Dimitri should go over now. He should step in as house leader, should soothe –

Mercedes raises her hands, interjecting herself easily. A sweet laugh and a few more words and Dorothea’s hackles lower a little. She rolls her eyes, tightening her grip on Bylead’s arms, her head resting on his shoulders as Ferdinand returns to his new teapot. 

He casts uncertain glances at Dorothea who takes in the slow tea ceremony with an air of boredom she does not bother to hide. The look bends Ferdinand’s shoulders a little until Bylead tugs his sleeves, leaning forward with an enthusiasm Dimitri had never seen before.

Dimitri prickles as Bylead leans close enough to Ferdinand to whisper, something animated and lively in Bylead’s face as he gestures to the leaves. 

“You want to find a tea for yourself?” Ferdinand shakes himself, brightening considerably, “You only need to ask, Professor. I will, of course, endeavor to do my best. Shall I make you a cup of the oolong? Something more bitter like the Saint’s tea?”

Bylead shakes his head at all of those, tapping a finger against a preserved discus of tea leaves. 

“Start with your favorite,” his voice rings louder than Dimitri had expected and briefly Dimitri wonders what it would be like if he were the one sharing a pot of chamomile with the Professor. 

“Oh,” and Ferdinand puffs out his chest, “Of course. Here, Professor, smell this for yourself. I believe it all begins with the aroma –“ 

Ferdinand’s voice drops a little as he goes into further detail, his attention solely on Bylead now. 

The two of them bend over the selection of teas, Ferdinand breaking a few leaves from a dried discus set to lift the tea for Bylead to smell. 

Dimitri stares as Bylead tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, eying the curl of Bylead’s hair against his jaw, at the way Bylead’s fingers linger absently against his cheek, at the way Bylead’s lashes flutter closed as he breathes. As serious as if he were selecting weapons for them during their sparring lessons. Bylead curls a hand over Ferdinand’s to draw the leaves closer to his face and Dimitri feels a tension run over him, something charged and unusual. 

Recognizing the emotion as jealousy. An old emotion shaking loose from the tangled mess of grief that was his every day, wandering towards his heart. The feel no less potent than the day Felix had announced the start of his sword training with Glenn, marking him the first of their friend group to accomplish such an achievement.

A wry smile twists Dimitri’s mouth. 

He’d thought himself incapable of such worthless thoughts but beast that he was, it was hardly surprising for him to welcome base emotions with open arms. 

The old memory no longer stirred any intense envy from him. Looking back, he can see for himself the foolishness of it. And to feel it now, aimed so keenly at someone for sharing time with the Professor … 

_Childish_, he chides himself, _The Professor –_

Is smiling at Ferdinand. It’s the barest twist of his lips. Smaller than the one Dimitri had seen aimed towards Byleth mere days ago but it’s a smile nonetheless. Aimed at Ferdinand for a simple lesson on tea, of all things. The expression is startling enough Ferdinand cuts himself off mid-sentence.

Astonishment drives Ferdinand’s eyebrows into his hairline as Dorothea touches a hand to her mouth. A beat of silence then the two of them saying something, speaking over each other. Their words urgent. Delighted. It draws Annette’s and Mercede’s attention and Annette gasps, overly dramatic, leaning forward and nearly toppling the stand of sweets. Dorothea touches a finger to the edge of Bylead’s lip and then follows up with a palm over his cheeks. As if she can hold the smile in her palms. Assuming a familiarity she surely should not. 

And Dimitri –

Does nothing.

He very carefully loosens his grip from his pen and looks down at his breakfast and papers. 

"Oh, come now, Professor!" Annette cries, “Do that again, please?”

“Oh, why ever would you hide such a lovely smile?” Dorothea huffs.

“Was it the tea? Did you like this one? I can brew another - I had thought the leaves were a little bland. The next batch –“

“Hush, Ferdie – now then, Professor …”

Dimitri refuses to look up, his attention razor-sharp on his homework. Hanneman and Bylead had cobbled together a different lesson plan this week. Less focus on Hanneman’s typical seminars and more focus on individual attributes. They’d assigned each of the students different duties and assignments, targeting weak areas or specific interests. Had turned Dimitri’s attention towards riding for that week and he stares at the words for defensive formations against cavalry units until they start to blur, reading the same line over and over, refusing to acknowledge the conversation across the dining hall. 

_“I must admit, it has been a long time since I’ve ridden. My father … he used to take me out on his horse," Dimitri notes as he looks over his lesson plan.  
_

_“Ah, my father did the same,” Bylead says and then spreads his arms, “If you ever need a practice partner…”_

He’d obviously meant to indicate himself as a practice partner and not at all offering another hug. 

Obviously. 

And Dimitri had not stepped forward in anticipation. Not at all.

But that meant the Professor would be able to help with this particularly difficult problem.

Yes, certainly, that was what Professors did after all. Dimitri shuts his book, grimacing a little at the way it slams closed, having misjudged his strength yet again. He grabs for the loose sheets, feeling a needle prick pang of guilt for crumbling them as he makes his way over.

He has enough wherewithal to keep his steps measured as he walks over to their table. Capable enough to draw a smile for everyone at the table. Controlled enough he does not allow his gaze to linger on the Professor –

“Oh, all it takes to shape deserters is some tea and a sweet smile, I see,” Edelgard says, stopping at the table just as Dimitri does.

Her expression is neutral as if she would truly make her housemates stand trial for sharing a meal with a Professor from a different house. Hubert’s little leer of amusement only lends to the discomfort that falls over the group. 

“Edelgard…” Dimitri begins, thinking to intervene. 

She interrupts him with a snort, something low and surprisingly inelegant as she bows her head to the Professor, “It was only a jest. I’d thought to apologize for my house for any perceived impudence.”

Her gaze is more than a little critical as it shifts over to Ferdinand who bristles and puffs out his chest as if he means to offer a duel here and now.

“They can be a little … impetuous. That’s the polite way of putting it,” Hubert says, a little wicked smile aimed at Ferdinand, drawing more of his ire. He turns his smile onto Bylead who only blinks, “Feel no hesitation about denying their many demands. Treat them as if they were squalling babes begging for milk when they’ve already been fed…”

“Hubert …” Edelgard sighs and then turns to Bylead again, offering a little apologetic smile, “What I mean to say … I’m aware Linhardt has intruded upon the Professor’s good will far more than he should. She’s tolerated his presence in her classrooms but I hope it’s not out of misplaced obligation for the nobility.”

"Byleth doesn't do anything she doesn't want to," Bylead says and the tone with which he says it lends the impression that he would relish seeing people attempt to sway his sister.

“And besides, Edie, we’re just having tea,” Dorothea pouts, tugging at Edelgard’s sleeve until she sits, “Come come, sit down. You look like you could use a cup.”

“Don’t forget the sweets,” Mercedes says, pressing a plate into Edelgard’s hands suddenly and firmly enough she takes it and then is left staring down at it incredulously.

“I –“

“You too, Dimitri,” Annette says, tugging at his arm.

“Come on, Hubie - don’t want to be left out.”

“I do not care to be a part of this. I have more important matters demanding my time.“

“You can consider this making up for their … impetuousness,” Bylead offers and there’s not quite a smile on his face but something subtly amused. 

“Oh, so close,” Annette huffs. Her fingers hover near Bylead’s face as if she intends to pinch his cheeks and lift his lips upwards. She blushes, folding her hands behind her as if she’d suddenly remembered herself.

“Lady Edelgard is far too busy for something like this.“

“Come now, Edelgard, surely you have some time to spare,” Dimitri says. He picks up a pot Ferdinand had just finished brewing and pours her a cup, a little part of him hoping he’d remembered her favorite tea correctly, “You can consider this building interhouse relations. Isn’t that the purpose of our time here?”

“Hmph, you should not be borrowing words from Claude. Here I thought I’d, at last, be free of him while he’s away,” but there is no heat in her voice, the same way she’d sounded lecturing him on dancing, stern but without malice. Dimitri cannot help smiling as she takes the cup, treasuring the soft look of surprise on her face as she peers at it, “Bergamot. Thank you.”

How long had it been since they’d last shared a meal together?

He wonders if she remembered that disastrous first time he'd tried to brew bergamot for her. Edelgard blinks at him, withdrawing a little as she looks away. Ah, perhaps his smile had not been passable.

“Ferdinand said this tea’s for worries,” Bylead says, craning his head up to peek at her cup.

“Professor, I said it was to allay stress affecting sleep – now this one…”

“Oh, don’t be so fussy Ferdie. Isn’t it all the same?”

“It most certainly is not!”

“Tch, what remarkable free time you have to indulge in such dalliances.”

“Knowledge on tea is the very mark of nobility. Why –“

“Ferdie, Hubie - your fighting’s going to sour the sweets.”

“Oh, yeah! Edel – er, your Majest – no, your Highness, u-um –“

“Edelgard.”

“Or Edie.”

“No, please. Just Edelgard.”

“Well, don’t forget the sweets. This one’s a mandarin tart. This one’s a honey bun. Mercie, what was that other one you said would go nicely with bergamot?”

“Right here, Annie.”

Dimitri smiles at their antics, toying with a cup he’d poured for himself, watching Edelgard blink at the press of plates in her direction. If he’d recall correctly, she had a particular fondness for sweets. More specifically for peach desserts. He could recall times she’d bet her dinnertime saghert and cream if she could best him in a race. He’d lost many desserts to her during her short stay. 

Warmed with the memory, he glances around the table, looking for something to push towards her growing pile. 

“Dimitri, here,” Bylead hands him a little plate with sweet buns, tugging him into the empty seat beside Bylead. 

Pulls Dimitri close enough Dimitri can smell the last dessert Bylead’d had on his breath.

Absently, Dimitri thinks he’d like to taste the sweetness from Bylead’s mouth and then has to duck his head, unable to meet his Professor’s eyes.

“You said you liked this last time we ate,” Bylead says. 

A little flutter of warmth pulses in Dimitri’s chest, something feather-light and remarkably enticing. Drawing him in. His fingers graze Bylead’s under the plate, a touch here and gone in the span of seconds, leaving him wanting more. He utters a quiet thank you, not daring to lift his head until he feels Bylead’s gaze lift away, staring at the sharp profile of Bylead’s face as his Professor turns his attention back to Ferdinand. 

And then regrets it immediately when he accidentally catches Edelgard’s stare. Astonishment. Then understanding. 

He’d not seen that look of low amusement in Edelgard’s eyes since they’d had their last dance lesson. Her look right before she sniped a barbed tease at him was much the same, the corner of her lip drawing up like a predator ready to pounce. She folds her hands under her chin still as she leans in, ready to draw blood.

“El…” Dimitri mumbles, the sound too low for her to hear, a little whisper of a plead as he rips into the sweet bun.

“Professor,” Felix’s voice breaks over the group of them like a bottle over a tavern table.

He doesn’t falter as he takes in the group, only the faintest trace of surprise on his face when he sees Edelgard at their table. His expression does not openly curdle, as it usually does, at the sight of Dimitri, the anger carefully regulated to only his eyes. 

“Prince,” Felix says but the tone with which he speaks the word, Dimitri knows he means, ‘Boar.’

Only carefully withheld in light of Edelgard’s presence.

“You’re looking a little too free,” Felix says, aiming the words at Bylead, “I have a favor to ask. Come with me. You too.”

He nods at Dimitri.

“Aw, Felix, can’t this wait?” Annette huffs, “Surely, it can’t be so world ending.”

“Now.”

And he is already walking away. Strides long, without any hesitation, as if he does not care if they choose to obey or not.

“My apologies,” Dimitri snaps on the offer out, rising quickly as he excuses himself, carefully not looking at Edelgard in case she chooses to tug at the thread she’d picked up on earlier.

He hears Bylead do the same. 

“Professor, next time I shall find a tea suitable for your tastes,” Ferdinand calls after them with as much seriousness as if he had made a knight’s oath.

“I look forward to it,” Bylead replies and Dimitri hears his pace pick up, startling a little as Bylead draws up next to him.

The Professor holds out a sweet bun.

“Here,” Bylead says. Not smiling but his eyes are warm, full of care, “You didn’t get a chance to enjoy.”

The flutter comes back. A hopeless less rise and drop, wreathed in warm emotion. Dimitri clings to it, the gentle warmth a reprieve from the dark, holding it carefully within himself, nearly trembling with the effort not to shatter it.

“Thank you.”

* * *

But as with everything good in Dimitri's life, the feeling does not last. The stickyness of the bun lingers still on Dimitri’s tongue as they arrive on the second floor of the dormitories. Felix practically kicks open Sylvain’s door.

The sight that greets Dimitri chills the warmth, the first creep of winter back over him. 

There are papers and maps all over the floors, looking like a war room instead of a dormitory. Dimitri recognizes some of the papers as the last year’s reports from the Knights of Faerghus, papers Rufus had scoffed over and disregarded, pushing the responsibility over to whoever would stand to pick them up. A little prick of dread digs between Dimitri’s ribs as he enters the room.

“Your Highness. Professor,” Ingrid displaces all the books in her lap just to stand up and bow, frowning in disapproval when Sylvain only lifts a hand in greeting.

“This favor… it doesn’t have to do with the way you were following me around last week?” Bylead asks Felix. 

“Guess you should learn subtlety,” Sylvain laughs as Felix snaps a glower on Bylead, something like embarrassment flashing over Felix’s face before it’s hastily covered by annoyance.

“It was. But you were preoccupied with Gaspard. Just as well. Sylvain noticed something,” Felix says stiffly, gesturing to the map in front of Sylvain and Ingrid.

“Ever since Duscar, there has been a rise in bandit activity throughout the Kingdom,” Ingrid explains to Bylead, pointing to a map with many colored flags, “They’ve been raiding villages all throughout the Kingdom. Fraldarius territory was not spared. A letter came from Lord Rodrigue before the Knights of Seiros left for Gaspard.”

“My father,” Felix says in response to Bylead’s questioning look, “He’s requested my assistance routing bandits in his territory. What a pathetic old man he’s become.”

“Felix … that’s hardly fair, Lord Rodrigue –“

“If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it,” Felix snarls, “Cease your grunting boar. We have more important things to discuss.”

“Felix!” 

Dimitri bites his lip as he turns to the map, saying nothing. He’d lost the right to speak against Felix long ago. With a heavy heart, he sits down in front of Ingrid and Sylvain, pulling a stack of papers for himself. Glenn rising yet again beside him, peering down at the numbers in despair.

_“I die so you may live,” Glenn tells him and it’s a sweet promise from a knight’s tale. A line from Dimitri’s favorite book. Something he’d cheered over._

_Blood smears over Dimitri’s cheek. The feel sticky and disgusting. Bearing a heat that did not translate to the hand growing colder against Dimitri’s face. And then, because he had asked for warmth, fire erupts over Glenn's head. The smell like swine, a roasted pi – _

“I would say I’m sorry for dragging you into my family’s affair,” Felix says. He gives Dimitri a look of disgust, ignoring Ingrid’s furious glare, before turning to speak only to Bylead, “But you seem quite free. Especially now that your sister and father have gone to Gaspard. What was it you were entertaining yourself with? Tea time?”

“Yes,” Bylead says, either deaf to the pointed barb in Felix’s tone or uncaring. His fingers twitch as he leans over the maps, moving as if he were toying with an imaginary dagger as his other hand marks out the many blue pins in Gautier lands, jumping over to the yellow ones in Fraldarius, and then the white in Galatea.

"The colors. They’re attack patterns?”

“As expected of the Professor,” Sylvain says, smiling. Curiously, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Sylvain noticed the pattern first,” Ingrid says, “He happened to be looking at the Gautier reports.”

“Aw, that’s giving me a little too much credit, Ingrid. They just happened to fall on my head when I was otherwise engaged,” he wiggles his brows at them all, “I’m just lucky it missed such a lovely lady. It would have certainly killed the mood.“

“Enough,” Ingrid snaps. To Bylead, “The colors are bandit attacks over the years. Each color is a different year. Seems they’re jumping from territory to territory. White is three years ago. Yellow is two. Blue is this year.”

“Unusually organized for mere bandits,” Dimitri says, the dread in his heart twisting a little tighter, “I should speak of this to Rufus.”

“Tch. If we wanted to scream to the wind, we could do it ourselves.”

“I’m afraid that’s not all, your Highness,” Ingrid says, as she smoothes out one of the reports from Galatea territory, “The numbers also don’t match up. There were arrests and executions when the attacks happened. Galatea territory is poor and the noble blood thin, but we are not the sort to turn away from our duty. We took leaders where we could and lent aid whenever requested. Yet the bandit numbers each year remain the same.”

“Gautier, too. And don’t let Margrave Gautier hear you whispering about incompetence. I know personally, that the bandits were dealt with. But they’re still springing up undeterred. All over the territory like rats in a feedbag. You snap up one and five more take its place. The attacks were wearing our knights thin. There’s an odd coordination to them. Creeping up to strike wherever we have the least men.”

“Do you think Margrave Gautier has realized this pattern exists across the Kingdom?” Dimitri asks, his hands clenching in his lap.

“Ha! He hasn’t spoken to anyone else in the Kingdom since my worthless excuse of a brother was cast out. Father might not show it but it seems his pride took quite a hit that day,” Sylvain grins at Bylead, a little smirk sharp as a knife. It’s a look he wears around his many mistresses and those he does not care for. A hidden blade waiting to be used, “Y’see, the noble families can be a little … cold towards their kin. Especially when they dared to be born without a Crest.”

“It can’t be helped,” Ingrid sighs, “Gautier holds our main line against Sreng to the north. To be born without a Crest is to be borne weak. Oh – not that you are incapable, Professor! I was only explaining customs in the Kingdom.”

“Thanks,” Bylead tilts his head at them, his expression smooth as water. He doesn’t seem particularly insulted. As if he knew, personally, what he was capable of and no one else’s words mattered. Bylead glances to the side once, over Sylvain’s head, as if he’d heard someone else speaking, and then down to the papers again, “But you were saying none of the nobles in the Kingdom have realized this pattern?”

“Ever since Duscar there’s been little reason to unite the noble families at court. Rufus is more interested in chasing his own pleasures. Too enthralled by a pretty face. Insatiable. Just like this good for nothing here.”

“Felix! No need to point a blade at me too!”

“Felix, that’s your king …” Ingrid says but she makes no other attempt to defend the Grand Duke. 

Rage bubbles in Dimitri's chest. An old memory of his father sitting at his desk surfacing. Lambert’s face cast in shadows - blurring in Dimitri’s memories - as he lent over the budget for that week, mumbling something under his breath as he worked. Marking out documents and examining books with care. The candlelight beside him growing steadily dimmer, at odds with the strength and conviction to continue within Lambert. 

_“A king is nothing without his people,” Lambert says, patting Dimitri’s head, “My apologies, my little lion cub, while I would cherish spending more time with you, this country needs me.”_

"He will be made to listen,” Dimitri says hotly, fists clenching as his temper starts to rise.

Felix eyes him, full of judgment, “Calm yourself boar. What would you do, grab his head and beat it to stone until he listened? You just want an excuse for your violence.”

Rage, black and bitter, spills over Dimitri’s entire body as if someone had spilled an inkpot. The emotion rattling through him as the ghosts do. His father whispering in his ear, begging him to do the right thing. To wipe the stain on Lambert’s people and land. Demanding Dimitri stop wasting his time with worthless –

“Do not speak to me like that,“ Dimitri snarls, barely noticing the way Ingrid and Sylvain flinch at his tone, his eyes only on the darkly damning glower Felix was giving him. Focused on the way Felix’s hand drops to his sword, stance shifting, “Duke Rufus will be made to listen. He cannot continue to turn a blind eye to the people –“

A clap breaks the air. The sound right in Dimitri’s ear. Startling enough, it yanks Dimitri’s attention back.

“We’re going to Fraldarius territory,” Bylead says and there's a dagger in his hand, weaving through his fingers as if it were dancing. He eyes them all sharply as if he were ready to loosen the dagger if the need arose. The threat of a trained mercenary hanging in the air between them.

He aims a pointed stare at Dimitri’s hands, holding until Dimitri unclenches them, and then over to Felix.

“That was your favor, no?”

Felix scoffs but nods.

“We’ll leave after I speak to Professor Hanneman. And Rhea,” Bylead says, “As for what happens afterward… well, you can discuss with Lord Rodrigue once we’re there. Sound like a plan?”

He looks at Felix and then Dimitri, gaze cold as it had been that night in Remire, demanding an agreement from them both.

“Fine.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Dimitri barely manages not to flinch as Bylead shoves a stack of papers at him, a hand finding his beneath the stack, squeezing hard. A gesture hidden beneath the scrolls. Conveying something Dimitri struggles to cling to, the warmth of Bylead’s touch easing the darkness a little.

_“But I suppose if it makes you feel better…if you do it again, I’ll just stop you again," Bylead says, his grip on Dimitri's arm like a vice. Holding him still while simultaneously holding him up. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *banging the table* dream sex dream sex -- this chapter's definitely a little self indulgent but hey, i promised a lighter one this time
> 
> also, this series may go on a little hiatus. i am out of the country for the next four weeks without a laptop.
> 
> i may try to write something over christmas to come up with at least one chapter i can post in between but cannot promise 
> 
> i am definitely not planning on abandoning the series so no worries if there's radio silence from me for a little while


	18. White Clouds: True Chivalry

“We aren’t allowed to leave the monastery,” Byleth has said with a little hint of teeth, a near grimace on her face.

She poked at Bylead’s chest with a little map of Gaspard. It’s rolled up and there are markers all over but Bylead hadn’t seen it beyond what Ashe had shown them. Hadn’t been involved in their last plans. 

Byleth whacked him lightly on the shoulder with the paper, “She probably needs to keep one of us at the monastery at all times.” 

Her words are shaped like a warning but the way she turns away from him feels like a dismissal. Jeralt had huffed a little as he ruffled Bylead’s head.

"We'll be back soon."

_Stay behind._

_Wait._

* * *

“Of course, Professor,” Rhea agrees to send the Blue Lions to the Kingdom with the simple ease of someone taking a breath. She touches her fingers to her mouth as she giggles, “My, you siblings are so alike. Professor Byleth came to find a mission when you were sent to Zanado.”

Bylead does not smile back, only inclines his head in a little nod, the tips of his fingers itching. An odd discomfort prickling at his skin. 

* * *

“The villagers are our priority,” Bylead says, leaving the students with only simple orders. 

He was taught by his sister after all and she was a simplistic fighter when it came down to it. Someone who bore straight ahead on her own terms and left others to fend for themselves. Someone who worked off easy logic and –

_“If I should fall, then it is your job to run over me.”_

Bylead turns his thoughts firmly away, putting himself at Felix’s back as they move for the village center. There’s an obvious similarity to Byleth in Felix’s new sword form and from the self-conscious way Felix twitches his shoulders and glares, it is a purposeful change. 

“Tch, does the idea of taking on bandits bore you so much you can hardly keep your attention on your task?” Felix asks and then, as if realizing how defensive he’d sounded, utters a little snarl and runs ahead.

His footwork has improved since Zanado. Faster and lighter. He doesn’t make as much noise and doesn’t land as heavily. It makes his blade sharper. More deadly. Each swing is precise to the point of artful. Finding weak points. Angling at major organs. Felix is steady and meticulous as he cuts through the bandits.

So strikingly similar to Byleth yet so lacking it resounds hollowly in Bylead’s chest.

Blyead has to adjust, still. Has to warp spells and daggers around Felix. Has to correct blind spots and defend whenever Felix is unable to move fast enough to cover himself. Has to step out ahead, and take point with Thunder around his forearms and a dagger in his hand.

Magic is a new tool. So deceptively light it makes his movements effortless.

Lightning twists over and under Bylead's skin, crackling like embers as they twist and spark in the air, throwing offshoots that dance about him, appearing harmless. As if the spell were nothing more than mere fireflies seeking kisses on his cheeks.

He throws bolts of lightning with the same simple ease he throws daggers only with three times the strength. Lightning shatters training swords. Rips through bandits. Tosses his assailants aside as if they were nothing more than smoke and wind.

Bylead runs ahead with lightning on his heels, scorching out a path for himself. Throwing himself into the thick of battle first in Byleth’s place. Lets himself engage and be finished with his targets before they even see him.

In Byleth’s place where –

_“If I should fall then your job is to run over me,” Byleth says without a care in the world, looking at him but also straight ahead of him. _

Bylead breathes in a crackle. The spell rattles against his teeth, working on his tongue like salted candies, twisting into shape, warping the air before him. With a boom that rattles his skin, he sends another bandit to the ground, barely hearing the scream.

Bylead only steps around her, the grip on his unused dagger tight enough to hurt. Something unfamiliar and painful stinging in his chest. Something oddly shaped and unrecognizable.

_“Your students,”_ Sothis reminds him and he feels her pull at his senses.

Summoning the battlefield about him and like a bucket taking in water, the fight rises up around him. He can hear distant hoofbeats and the pound of feet. Sees civilians ducking into smaller alleys and hiding in their homes. Registers fires and smoke alongside errant green gusts blazing over rooftops. The sound of Dimitri’s orders echoes nearby, followed by Dedue’s thudding footsteps and the heavy clatter of his enormous shield. 

Beside him, the bandit he has felled is still screaming as she cradles her arm, her hands trembling as the metal of her disfigured blade warps into her skin.

Felix’s blade rings out behind him, metal on metal clashing from far behind. Bylead had run out further than he’d expected. 

The world around them is a small chaos, teetering at the very edge of control.

The next Thunder twists above Bylead's head, coiling in an unsteady imitation of Byleth’s new blade, the spell pale and ephemeral while hers had been solid and unforgiving. 

He snaps it down. 

Carves at the air with his magic as if he wielded a blade instead, ripping through a group of bandits surrounding a man on horseback, scoring lightning over their backs, the current throwing them to the ground, leaving them breathless and twitching.

Lord Rodrigue looks over at him from horseback with the calm appraisal of a general. Someone incapable of losing control.

“You have my thanks,” Lord Rodrigue says.

Sothis is uncharacteristically silent in Bylead's head but her thoughts rumble like oncoming storm clouds. Muted because he does not insistently pry but he can hear her thoughts like a neighbor on the other side of a wall. He can feel her gaze, something cast in concern and it rubs at him too strongly. Makes him want to turn and hide.

“You are –?” Rodrigue asks.

“From the Officer’s Academy.”

A pause and then recognition lights Rodrigue’s eyes. A little smile twitches the corners of his mouth but he does not let it come fully to form, letting his caution ebb away in slow increments. He bows, still on his horse. 

“The new Professor,” Rodrigue says, “I have you to thank for the reinforcements.”

“No – that was Felix.”

A little rueful smile Bylead does not understand ghosts Rodrigue’s lips.

“I see. My son has returned,” Rodrigue says and it lacks the general warmth of Jeralt’s hellos whenever he returned from a mission.

After Gaspard, Bylead will be the sole person to greet him – to greet them both. Byleth, after all, had gone with. Bylead’s fingers twitch a little around his dagger and Sothis' thoughts rumble a little louder, a conclusion rising to the surface.

“Pardon my rudeness,” Rodrigue says, “I have much to say but – well, perhaps we should –“

Bylead glimpses a blade’s wicked edge in his periphery but does not bother to flinch from it, recognizing the shape and movement, knowing well that the blade was not meant for him. 

Felix strikes with ruthless precision, steady and well-practiced. Swings with such strength, Bylead feels the press of wind at his back. 

Rougher and far crueler than he’d been in Zanado, Felix shakes a dead man from his blade and turns to address them both with a surly glower. 

“Is fighting bandits so dull you would distract yourself with idle conversation?” Felix asks Bylead, his voice low and reprimanding. He casts his father only the barest glance and his lips curl in a little snarl of hatred. As if that little glimpse were too much to bear.

“Felix –,” Rodrigue says, his voice low and cautious. Tenuously inviting. 

“Pathetic,” Felix snaps out in response. He straightens, entire body ringing with tension, a stray animal cornered and poised to move, “Struggling to defeat some ragtag bandits? You’ve grown weak.”

“Felix … you may know this already, but no matter how many you kill, more always appear,” Rodrigue says. The warmth extinguishing within him. The scorn of his son’s judgment makes him solemn and unwavering. The statue of a general on his horse, “Anywhere in the Kingdom these days you find these scenes. His Majesty –“

And Felix’s criticism coalesces into something resembling hatred.

“The late king would despair to see it.”

“A dead man doesn’t despair,” Felix says, the words flying from his mouth before Rodrigue’s finished speaking.

The words feel worn around the edges and well used. Lifted from an old argument.

Rodrigue stiffens, the corners of his mouth going flat. A little crease forms between his brows and it marks out a deeper similarity between them and an even deeper rift. 

Father and son, standing on opposing sides.

Bylead shifts, uncomfortable and wrong-footed. Uncertain as to what to do. 

_“When was the last time you had a fight with your father?”_

He couldn’t recall.

_“Never,” _Sothis answers for him, _“It’s not in you.”_

“Lord Rodrig –“ Bylead says, thinking to step between them but his voice, as always, is too quiet. Too soft. In a way Byleth’s never was.

“I am the king's shield, devoted to protecting the Kingdom,” Rodrigue says. The slow precise manner in which he articulates his words makes Bylead want to flinch away. Every syllable a reprimand. Each pause a condemnation, “In time you, too, will learn that you cannot turn away from your duty forever. Your brother –”

“If you finish that sentence, I will cut your head from your shoulders myself,” Felix snarls with vitriolic heat, his eyes ablaze. 

“Glenn would have wished for you to carry out your duty,” Rodrigue finishes, his words full of scorn. 

Felix’s anger is a thick roil of heat, the bellowing breath of a blacksmith’s oven. So great and so terrible it's impossible to look into and even more impossible to bear. Felix’s body trembles as if his physical form cannot hold the sheer magnitude of his fury. His knuckles are a bone white over the hilt of his sword, his nails digging into the palms of his hand. He’s lost all of his composure but none of his fight, shifting slowly into a stance as if he is thinking to lunge.

“Felix –“ 

“Then you should have done yours that day in Duscar along with the rest of those pitiful –“

Bylead does not stay to see the rest.

* * *

“Mercie, I need some bandages,” Annette calls out, the magic of her fingertips growing weaker as she tends to a villager with a bloody gash on his leg. 

Obligingly, Mercedes provides her a roll, humming a little cheerful tune as she goes back to her own patients, drawing magic from the air as if she were picking flowers.

Ingrid and Sylvain bring over more injured civilians on the backs of their horses, aided by the knights of Rodrigue’s guard. Every now and again, Annette glances to a man sharing the same orange hair, her expression twisted in a little glare each time she did, twitching a little in her seat as if trying to force eye contact.

“Lord Rodrigue,” Ingrid greets with a low bow, a rigid tension settling in her shoulders. Similar to Felix but her expression clear of any of the emotions. There’s something subdued about her mannerisms and they share a small smile, full of something like understanding.

At Ingrid’s side, Sylvain mocks out a sloppy bow as if needing to make up for her formality. His eyes, once off Rodrigue, seek out Felix immediately, offering an exaggerated smirk meant to annoy. 

_Will you not say anything?_ Bylead asks.

_“What is there to say?”_ Sothis answers with a question.

_Fool. Brat. Stupid ignorant child –_

_“You want me to berate you? Here I thought you veered on the side of sadism,”_ Sothis says, playing at ignorance. She twists a strand of her hair between her fingers as if in deep thought, _“Well. I suppose experimentation is natural while you’re young but you should certainly find someone else to satisfy your masochistic urges –“_

_Sothis._

She turns to look at him and for a moment he thinks he’s looking at someone else. Someone older carrying weight and understanding that could only come from age. 

_“I don’t think you were a fool,” _she says_, “I granted you my power to save your life but I do not recall barring you from it when you needed it.”_

_Needed?_

He’s not sure how to interpret that and Sothis offers no answers on her own. 

“Lord Rodrigue!”

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue greets Dimitri with unfiltered joy, his voice going warm and delighted. All sternness and gravitas wiping clean from his face as he dismounts his horse. He grasps at Dimitri’s shoulders, squeezing once, full of affection. 

If they were not surrounded by eyes, Bylead is certain he would have taken the prince in with a hug.

“I’m glad you are well. It has been a long time, your Highness. You’ve grown. Someday, I imagine you will stand taller than his Majesty.”

The juxtaposition between Dimitri and Felix is startling. Rodrigue holds none of his former tension. No disappointment. No anger. No deep-seated anger. Only fondness as he looks at Dimitri. Only joy.

A welcome meant for a son.

“Felix.”

Felix brushes up against Bylead as he steps forward and makes no move to approach his father beyond that as if needing the distance between them. 

“Oi, Professor!” Sylvain calls with a smile that does not reach his eyes, “What’re you doing hiding back there. That’s Lord Rodrigue! This silver fox doesn’t bite unless you ask politely~”

“Sylvain …”

“Oh – sorry, was too spot on? Why Lord Rodrigue – I would never have guessed –“

“Sylvain!” Dimitri shouts, his cheeks pink as he steps towards his friend, expression twisting as he was wont to do before he launched into one of his many speeches regarding propriety. 

“Yikes, never mind,” Sylvain leaping over the back of his horse, headed for the village outskirts once more. 

“I apologize, for Sylvain. Truly.”

“No need, your Highness. His antics are not unusual," Rodrigue says laughing. His eyes are clear as he looks at Bylead, bowing deep. "So, this is the new Professor. We are grateful for your help. Though I doubt the bandits will stop any time soon, at least this village is safe. It was important to the late king. If we hadn’t saved it, I wouldn’t have been able to face his Majesty.”

Felix sucks at his teeth, a sharp angry sound that cuts the air like an arrow. 

“We were protecting your subjects, not your ego,” Felix says, crossing his arms, “I don’t give a damn whether or not you can face a dead king.”

The words are sharp, pointed only at Rodrigue but Dimitri flinches, something dark but also guilty in his expression, “Felix –“

“I will not tolerate such language from you,” Rodrigue snaps, iron lancing through his words. He steps in front of Dimitri as if attempting to shield him. There’s a low rumble of anger in his voice, rising fast to the surface. The swell of heat from a volcano threatening to erupt. 

Felix scoffs, “Next time do us all the favor of dying instead of struggling about in vain. Perhaps his Majesty will praise you for ‘dying like a true knight.’”

Rodrigue’s lips thin. His grey eyes narrowed as if aiming for a weakness. A swordsman gauging for a weak point and –

“Perhaps. But –“

Bylead goes back.

* * *

“So easily turned away from duty. Glenn would have despaired to see you as you are –”

And back.

* * *

“– walking around chaining yourself to gravestones. You should have taken Glenn’s place, then. Go where your duty takes you and follow your corpse king to the eternal –“ 

And back.

* * *

“You were never meant to carry the Shield of Fraldarius. But it saddens me to see just how unworthy you are –“

* * *

“I suppose if I’d died, you would say the same thing you did after Glenn’s death.”

“…”

_“Again?”_ Sothis asks but there is no judgment in her voice. Only a patient sort of understanding, _“I have more to spare.”_

Bylead’s fingers twitch. The Divine Pulse itches at the tips of his fingers, time – hours and seconds – ghosts against him, at the very edge of his touch. 

“I have nothing more to say to you,” Felix says, turning on his heels to storm from the forest. He glares at Bylead as he passes, leaving Professor and father behind.

“He’s been that way for four years now,” Rodrigue says after a long moment of silence, “Of course, I understand his sentiment. To some extent. It all comes down to … well, a difference of opinion.”

_Does it?_

_“For someone like you … who has never quarreled with your family. I imagine this is difficult,”_ Sothis says mildly and again she is looking through him. 

Seeing him fully, down to the very core of him, just as she had done the day she’d awoken. Bleary-eyed and shrill, she’d strode down her throne and gazed right into his very soul. Into his thoughts. And desires. And –

“Glenn died like a true knight.”

_“If I should fall then your job is to run over me,”_ Byleth says.

Eleven again. 

_Byleth’s arm is broken but there’s no pain on her face. She looks at him from a distance, her gaze pinning him down, making herself unreachable._

_“Don’t cry over something like this,” she says as a command._

On their first mission.

_Byleth striding up to him as if she is not holding her wound together. She glances at him with concern, making sure he’s unharmed and then walks away. As if her wounds do not matter. _

In the Mausoleum.

_Byleth pinned to the wall, her jacket sleeves like the wings of a butterfly. Her eyes unseeing as she looks off into the distance._

Before mother’s grave.

_Byleth and Jeralt pressed together. Her new blade high in the skies above them. A shared resolution between the two of them. _

_The two of them leaving for Gaspard. Byleth glimpsing back once. Making sure he is still in place. Unmoving from where they left him. _

_Stay back, her eyes say. _

_Stay here. _

_Wai –_

“Well, a difference of opinion,” Rodrigue says for the <strike>second</strike> third time.

“I suppose … I understand.”

“Hm,” Rodrigue hums, considering for a moment before offering a little smile, “It’s fortunate Felix met someone like you. He is an odd boy. Thick-headed in some ways. But he is my son all the same. I’m glad he has you to look out for him. Ah – is that his Highness? He has grown in these years –“

_“Make your choice kid,” father tells him looking at dangers and concerns and troubles beyond them all._

_“Stay behind me,” Byleth says with her back to him._

_Wait here._

_Don’t follow –_

The Divine Pulse thrums beneath his fingers.

“Again?” Sothis asks and once more that patient understanding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **kicks down door** did you miss me? 
> 
> holy shit why is it feburary 
> 
> chap was a lot more delayed than id expected what with the travel, jetlag, remembering how to write (seriously, feels like my writing muscles deteriorated over time i was gone) 
> 
> think im going to restart this game because i havent touched anything fire emblem in so long 
> 
> anyways, hope you enjoyed! going to try and get back to some semblance of a normal schedule lol


	19. White Clouds: Of Family

There is no room for Glenn here.

The world is for the living. Not the dead.

Each cycle of the moon, each passing season, had shaken the ghosts from the land. Pushed them aside to where they rightfully belonged.

He does not exist on Fraldarius grounds.

Not on the training grounds. His dummies - _those are too big for you, Felix_ \- have long since been shredded to bits. Felix had grown into them. Then out of them.

Not in the stables. Glenn’s horse died with him. Decapitated and then set aflame. Left to rot and freeze.

Not in his room.

Felix breathes in clean sheets and flora. Neither choices Glenn would have made for himself. There had been no fat flower with a head too big on his table instead of books. No smell of freshly laundered sheets instead of polish and leather. There are no ghosts to be found here.

Felix pulls the last sword off Glenn’s wall feeling nothing. The dead have no use for fine weapons and rare shields. Incapable of swinging any blade let alone one as fine as this. A good replacement for the Zoltan blade Felix had broken some time ago. He pushes lightning through the Levin sword, turning it this way and that, pleased when it comes to life, crackling obediently.

“He would have been pleased you’ve chosen that one,” Rodrigue says. Felix does not recall giving his worthless father permission to approach him. Rodrigue looks around the room, a familiar sadness in his face, only a fraction of what should actually be felt. Felix grinds his teeth at the little touch of wistfulness in Rodrigue’s voice, “He thought you’d have a penchant for magic. Said a Levin sword would be a good bridge.”

“The dead don’t feel pleasure,” Felix spits, giving his father a wide berth as he passes him in the doorway. The mere thought of touching Rodrigue was repulsive. As if ideals were a plague to be caught. Felix doesn’t look his father in the face. Finds he cannot without something cloying burning the back of his throat, threatening nausea, “Have you spoken to Gautier yet? I didn’t come to throw information at dung piles, left to be pushed under and drowned by your worthless loyalty to the dead.”

“Felix …”

Felix’s grip tightens on the sword handle as he walks away, fingers twitching with the urge to use it. At this range, he could manage a strike. Knows he only has to swing up and parallel to his shoulder. Elbows down, wrist angled –

_“Good, remember that form now Felix. And do it a hundred times. Lest you forget it in battle,” Glenn instructs, holding Felix’s wrist steady. A little smile on his face. Encouraging and pleased._

Knows the Levin sword’s distance and range, can practically see the burn of white magic behind his eyelids.

As if sensing the movement, Rodrigue says nothing more. Only heaves a heavy sigh as he enters the room. Says something else as if greeting a Glenn who still sat at his table with his feet on the wood. A delirious old man chasing after ghosts.

Felix grits his teeth as he moves down the halls, refusing to look back. Refusing to indulge ghosts and lost fools.

Glenn did not exist here any longer.

In the empty halls, his footsteps pick up, lifting around him and splintering apart in an echo. A second pair following Felix’s through the Fraldarius halls.

* * *

The Fraldarius estate is wide and empty. As if loneliness was a feature of the land. An ancient law worn into the ground, growing like ivy vines into whatever building dare stand over it. Sinking into the humans, burning into their personalities. Given Felix’s tendencies to keep to himself, perhaps that was the truth.

For the moment, Bylead can only be grateful.

He presses his back against a wall without the gaze of a guard, eyes shuttering closed as he touches a hand to his temples, digging his thumb in hard. A desperate attempt to allay the tension pulsing beneath skin. There is a low pain, grinding into his pulse, like the slow turn of a millstone. A constant from within his body that made his fingers itch, aching to dig beneath skin and skull to tear the affliction from himself like an unfamiliar growth.

_“Apologies. I should have known better than to try and pour so much of my powers through you,”_ Sothis says, her voice sounding distant and faint despite how closely she hovered.

She wears guilt and concern in equal parts, her eyes going downcast when he stubbornly refuses her apology. Neither of them had known the gift would drain out of his body after the tenth attempt so abruptly. As if he were a bucket punched with holes, made into a sieve incapable of drawing from the stream of time. Power had left him in a great swoop, leaving behind weariness and pain like rock and debris too large to be sieved out.

He hangs his head, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his temple as if he could override the pulse of pain with a beat of his own. Fingers tapping harder and harder when it does nothing to ease the tension. Sothis touches him, a ghost touch that should be cool against his forehead. Like a mother’s hand. Seeking to draw pain from him. As Byleth had done for him so many times as children.

"Father!"

The shout is loud enough it startles some of the courtyard birds. Carrying over the winds, strident and urgent. Strums at the pain in Bylead’s head like a tightly strung lute, shaking loose a rush of discordant agony that makes him dizzy. With a slow heavy breath, he stretches his hand out for the wall, pulling himself forward just as Annette and Gilbert run past him.

Annette’s chasing the older knight and though Gilbert does not run, there is a quickness to his step that leaves the impression he is fleeing.

“Father! Why do you pretend not to recognize me?!” Annette shouts and like Rodrigue and Felix, it is a statement holding too much weight and too much history for Bylead to intrude upon.

Bylead’s head throbs, feeling agony in his periphery, loud and insistent like a feral dog on a leash. Sothis snatches at the Pulse at his fingertips, her mouth drawing down in deep disapproval as she holds it out of his reach, leaving his finger to grasp at empty air.

_“Shhh,”_ she says when his mouth parts in a protest, pointing to Annette and Gilbert.

“Father!” Annette has to physically stop him for a reply.

Wind erupts from her fingertips, scoring a deep line right in front of Gilbert’s foot, a remarkably speedy cast with deadly accuracy. Hanneman would be pleased the extra lessons and lent books on Reason had produced such a drastic improvement.

“Annette … I –“ Gilbert turns only long enough to glimpse her face before guilt splinters over his face. Something panged and full of understanding.

He turns hurriedly away, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Losing the statue straight stance of a knight for a moment.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Annette says, her voice quieter but not enough that Bylead would have to strain to hear. She reaches out to touch and as if she were pointing a poisoned dagger, Gilbert yanks his sleeve out of her range.

He flinches, shaking a little as he loosens his grip on himself, but does not turn back. Only starts walking again, his pace brisk. Someone desperate to escape.

“Father - stop this. Please stop treating me like a stranger. I – how long will you keep avoiding me like this?! I’ve seen you at Garreg Mach. I know you live there under a different name. I know you are avoiding me. I-I’m clumsy and a little dense but I’m not a fool! All these months … I know you flee from the training grounds whenever I approach. I see how you take your meals in your quarters; how you flee from the dining halls with your tray like a thief in the night. You even stop your morning prayers and hurry away when Mercie and I go for choir practice… Father - father, can you not face me?! I – I cannot bear this!”

Gilbert’s jaw tightens, working slowly over his words, and when he lets them loose, they are gravely spoken and forcibly distant, “I have lost the right to face you or your mother.”

“This is nothing to do with rights!” Annette shouts at him, her words biting on the heels of his protest, “We’re family. I’m your _daughter_.”

“Indeed,” he chances another glance and Bylead sees something flick over him. A deep care twisted up and tangled, folding in over itself until it was unrecognizable and distant.

“But I am no father. I am only a fool who abandoned his family.”

“You think it was foolish to abandon us?” the question lifts on a little measured plume of hope.

“I do.”

“Then the least you can do is apologize. Not to me – I’m fine – “

Sothis huffs a little disagreement and Bylead agrees.

“But mother deserves as much. She’s waited for you all this time. Living under uncle’s roof.”

“Annette … I’m sorry –“

“No! I’ve already told you. I don’t want that from you. Apologize to mother. Let her see your face. Let her know you –“

“No. That I cannot do. I –“ Gilbert tenses, bits of his shoulder armor grinding together as he straightens, “I must go to deliver his Highness’ findings to Margrave Gautier. With his Majesty gone and these patterns in banditry, there is something –“

“Mother still believes you will return to her. ‘When his duty is finished’,” Annette utters a harsh laugh, the sound like the shrill bite of an errant chalk stroke on blackboard, “‘I love a man who sees beyond himself and all others. King and country first … I love him still.’”

Gilbert turns so sharply Bylead wonders if he’d sprained himself. The knight's expression slack with surprise, the deep grooves of his brows and jaw smoothing out for only a moment. His eyes glimmer with something wretched and pained, something unspoken hanging on his lips. It is another long moment before he can compose himself again but he manages, agony outlining his face in sharp lines.

“I know you do not understand, Annette. But it is the way of things.”

“You’re right,” Annette says and this time she is the one to step away, her hands folded behind her back, nails digging into her delicate wrist. Magic flickers at her fingertips, green curling over her knuckles, a whisper away, reacting on her pain, “I do not understand.”

Silence spins out between them. Regret and anger like a dead weight over their heads.

“If you say the word, I will disappear from your sight,” Gilbert says as if it is a gift he is granting her. Does not seem to understand the way her expression twists and her entire body withdraws, “For now … I must return to my duties.”

His steps are heavy and measured. As if he did not mean his words. As if he wanted to stay.

But he does not glance back once, only walks away from his daughter with the same forced stoicism Rodrigue wears each time Felix bristles and snarls.

Bylead feels his heart lurch, something dropping like a heavy fist. Feels Sothis stiffen beside him, a memory from her side skittering over them both.

Of Zanado and a border of mountains ridges, their sharp tips grazing the full underbelly of a thick blue sky, as if they had clawed the white clouds into the blue. An old anxiety sticks in their chest, the feel like tar, as they _look to the horizon._

_It is a bright day. An optimistic sky. One meant for new beginnings. But she knows that is not to be. She can taste battle on her tongue as one can feel rain in their joints. Can feel something humming in the distance building to a crescendo –_

_“Mother, is everything alright?”_

_“Of course,” she lies as parents do, with a gentle smile and an easy air._

Bylead grunts when Annette barrels into him, stumbling a little out of surprise. His hands come up to her shoulders, sympathy sweeping away all else when he realizes her eyes are red.

“Oof – Professor,” she scrambles away from him, wiping furiously at her eyes as she does. Her cheeks are blotchy, the angry flush reaching up to her hairline, “I…I didn’t see you.”

Her voice trembles on her lips as if the words had been unwilling to leave her. Shaking her head, she forces a smile that is stretched too thin.

“I heard there are more bandits,” Annette says, trying to force a lightness to her tone, “Lord Rodrigue’s dispatched his knights to Gautier asking for more support. Do you think we’ll wind up going there too?”

“Annette … I’m sorry - I saw what happened. Are you–?“

“No,” she says, defensive and brittle around the edges. Like the shattered edges of a broken glass bottle.

Her smile dims as she takes a deliberate step back. She draws in on herself, curling her arms under her waist, her body tense.

“… Okay then,” Bylead says after a long moment, “I imagine we will be going to Gau–“

“You’re so lucky Professor,” the words break between them, startling them both as if it were the first snap of ice on a frozen lake.

The first crack preceding disaster.

Annette’s lashes flicker, startled and surprised, stunned by her own words but only for a moment. Her teeth find her bottom lip, sinking in hard, fresh tears springing to her eyes as she fixes Bylead with a gaze so angry it burns.

“You’re so lucky,” she says again and it’s sharper this time, honed like a blade, striking for a target. Her eyes flash with something cruel and unlike her, stirring from something long-simmering and angry, desperate for release, “I bet you’ve never felt this way, Professor.”

Bylead cannot summon a reply, too surprised by the accusation to find the words. As if she has taken his silence as agreement, Annette husks a sharp laugh.

“I knew it,” she says with hateful bitterness, “You. Professor Byleth. Sir Jeralt. You’re all so _close_. You would have no idea how I feel. To spend years waiting for someone who would never look at you properly.”

“Annette …”

“No,” she tears away from him, her words picking up speed, spellwork tripping over her clenched knuckles, swirling into the palm of her hand. She seems to take no notice. Her attention is fixed on Bylead, unwavering, as if holding him accountable for wrongdoing, “You never – you were never told ‘your father loves you, he just doesn’t know to show it’ or ‘we must have patience and faith. We must await his return. He wi- he will _surely_ –“

She cuts herself off, an angry sob ripping from her throat. The air around them twists, moving to match the dance of green over her fingers, “Having faith based on_ nothing_. Throwing all your love at someone that’ll never reciprocate. Being told to just be silent and wait – you never had to put full faith in something based on nothing. A happy little family. Mercenaries without a home with more than one I’ll ever have. It – it’s a mockery. The group of you in my face. So tightly bonded – I - I _hate_ yo–“

_Boom!_

Wind erupts in front of them. The appearance of it so sudden it rips a sound from the air.

Annette utters a startled cry, the break in concentration shattering her spell to pieces and it whips into the pillars and empty boxes around them, scores the ground between them, and claws into Bylead’s shoulder as it snaps apart.

“Professor!” she makes an aborted move towards him when he stumbles back against the spell, her eyes wide and troubled, her entire body shaking.

She blinks and it is as if she is seeing him again, her mouth falling open in an ‘O’ of surprise. Shock. Then guilt. Then self-loathing. Fear.

The color bleeds from her face, sapping the fight in her as it goes.

“I – Prof – I,” more accusations or an apology, Bylead never gets to hear, only hears his own voice calling after her as she flees from him.

The pounding in his head picks up, a pain like drumbeats. Building for a crescendo.

* * *

“Ha - so the bastard’s gone and done it,” Sylvain is the first to break the silence, his voice like a crackling fire, spitting embers at anyone who came to close, “Miklan always swore he’d be back for the Lance of Ruin. Guess older siblings deserve some praise for sheer stubbornness if nothing else.”

The last piece is aimed at Bylead. Slung like a trebuchet. Sylvain winks and smiles at Bylead but it’s disingenuous, full of the same sharp bitterness Annette had revealed to Bylead weeks ago.

_“She still cannot meet your eye,”_ Sothis notes.

As if Bylead had not noticed himself. He wasn’t the only one. Annette had pulled away from everyone. Mercedes included. The two of them on opposite ends of the table, their eyes cast in opposite directions in blatant avoidance.

Annette turns her face away from Bylead when he looks at her, bowing to look down at the papers, fingers tracing absently over Gilbert’s signature.

Bylead does the same, flipping halfheartedly through details of how Miklan had successfully built himself a group of bandits and spread them expertly across the Northern lands like a military tactician.

“It was an extraordinary move,” Dimitri says hesitantly, as if afraid to speak well of Miklan in Sylvain’s presence, “Miklan always did know how to bring others around to his cause.”

“Good for nothing but his mouth,” Sylvain says, waving his hands, “As father said.”

“I … Father said nothing when he came to Galatea lands. That was his kindness I suppose …,” Ingrid says, “And Miklan did not stay long. Only a fortnight before he disappeared. I remember father sent word to Margrave Gautier … perhaps he’d feared Miklan would have made an attempt then.”

Bylead wonders what it would have felt like. To know there were home and family so far away but to know he would never able to reach them. He taps his fingers in thought, not liking the little bloom of discomfort in the pit of his stomach.

“I never imagined he would turn to banditry,” Rodrigue says. His expression is grim as he picks over the words over Bylead’s shoulder and he heaves a heavy sigh, brow furrowing, “Gautier’s eldest was always … prideful. Banditry seemed beneath him,”

Sylvain snorts, “Pride? What pride did he have left after he was disowned? He had no title. No lands. Only the clothes on his back.”

There’s a lightness to his words that Annette had not been able to manage, an expertly managed trick as if nothing that came out of his mouth meant anything to him. A man with no connections to keep him tethered and no desire to be tied. Someone who felt nothing for the brother who’d been cast aside.

“He should have swallowed his miserable pride and found a family,” Sylvain says, crossing the room to pick up his lance from where it leaned against the doorframe. He toys with the weight for a moment, turning it over, “Well. I’d always expected this sooner. Miklan always was a good for nothing but it’s apparently not enough to keep that knowledge within the family.”

He grins and it’s smooth and easy as water.

“Now that he’s gone and screamed it to the world, we can’t let this pass,” he chuckles, “Hey, Felix what’s that word you’re always slinging around?”

No answer from the swordsman but Sylvain continues as if he’d received a reply. His glib act fraying at the edges, enough that Ingrid flashes Felix a look of concern.

“Oh, yes – _pathetic_ with a capital ‘P’. Worthless in life and determined to die a worthless death,” Sylvain hums, one hand running through his hair in thought, his gaze going distant, turning away from them all. Another little laugh rumbles in his throat, “Call me when we depart, Professor.”

And he leaves them with an unpleasant aftertaste. Fill of bitterness. The final dregs of herbal medication.

Ingrid flashes Bylead a pleading look as does Dimitri.

“I … I will defer to you for our approach,” Dimitri says.

_“That hesitance is unbecoming a king,”_ Sothis says, curling over Bylead, her arms around his neck. As if attempting to comfort. But the sigh she utters when Bylead stands and dislodges her reveal different intentions. She hovers behind him, tugging at the back of his shirt with a grasp he barely feels as he goes after Sylvain, _“Really. These students of yours…”_

* * *

“You know my brother first tried to kill me when I was five?” Sylvain asks when Bylead finds him at the horse stables.

He flashes Bylead a smile, something baiting and full of teeth and it feels as if Bylead has stepped into a predator’s den. His fingers tap the edge of his wrist dagger as he steps closer, putting himself well in range of Sylvain’s lance - if he had it on him.

Sylvain only wields clinch cutters and he has his hands occupied. His shirt is off and there is a thin sheen of sweat over his shoulders. His back is pressed against the body of his horse and he has one horse leg tucked between his own. The muscles of his arms bunch and twist as he works on the shoe.

“Took me up to the mountains saying he’d teach me to ride. Said the old man taught him that way. Stood him on a horse and then slapped the rear. ‘The kids down in Derdriu learn to swim like that. Thrown in headfirst. They pick it up or they don’t. Drown if they don’t. Don’t be such a whiner, Sylvain. You have to buck up now that you’re the next heir.’”

Sylvain chuckles, throwing the horseshoe at the ground in front of Bylead’s feet, the smile growing. Full of loathing whether turned inwards or out to his brother, it’s impossible to tell.

“Should’ve heard the way he said, _'heir'._ Like it was choking him to admit. He gave me a look when he was strapping me to the horse. Might’ve been guilt,” Sylvain says and he must have seen something on Bylead’s face because he snorts a laugh, “Yeah guilt. And about a thousand feet above that, delight. It’s the first time I’d seen him that happy. Hell - it was the first time I’d seen him smile around me. You know how ecstatic I was to see it? Here I was, five years old getting to spend time around my big brother. Thinking oh, maybe he doesn’t hate me so much. Maybe we could actually be friends. Maybe he was just faking the whole time.”

Sylvain’s eyes gleam like the point of a dagger, “Know how that feels, Professor?”

Bylead shakes his head as he passes Sylvain a hoof knife and in response, Sylvain’s smile grows. A wicked thing that draws ice in Bylead’s veins, something gnawing and terrible. A chill crawling up his spine sinking deep into the very core of him, turning bits of his blood jagged and piercing.

“Yeah... yeah, I bet,” Sylvain says, as he works at the dirt on the hoof bottom. Crumbing a particularly large piece between his fingers so it slips through his hands, “He dumped me on the old man’s horse. Big ol’ stallion. Meant for war. Bred to be bullheaded, no patience for the inexperienced.”

Bylead can feel something vibrating outwards. Anger. Hatred. Grief. It sticks in his throat, a thick bramble prodding at the sensitive skin, tearing him apart. Danger coil sickly in his gut.

“He tied my fingers with the mane hairs, just enough to keep me clinging. Even better if I yanked and pissed off the old thing. Nothing obvious. No lasting ties that weren’t meant to come off. In case he was caught I guess. Strapped down my legs to the stirrups with loose knots and then slapped the old thing with a little whoop. Heard him laughing when the thing took off. First time I heard him laugh too and for a minute I wasn’t so scared. Just happy to hear it. Glad that I made him do that.”

Sothis makes a noise like a moan, a little hiccup of terror at the cruelty as she presses closer to Bylead’s back. Her concern stirring Bylead’s own. A sick discomfort twisting at him from inside out.

“Didn’t last for long.”

Sylvain says nothing else as he picks through the dirt, working with the sharp efficiency of a man who knew what he was doing. He accepts a rasp from Bylead with a wink. The low sounds of the rasp sparking the air between them as Sylvain works.

“The second time he shoved me down a well. Said as heir we should know the lands so he took me to the village. Bought me a little toy lance that day and something about that made him laugh. It had a point to it and I guess he must have thought it would’ve been fitting if I’d fallen on it on my way down.”

"Let's see," Sylvain eyes the hoof, turning it this way and that, picking at the hoof walls with a thumbnail before deeming it satisfactory and letting go of the leg, "Third time he left me in the mountains. Hide and seek y'know? So gotta be quiet Sylvain. Woke up with him putting a pillow over my head in the infirmary. Fifth time was –"

“That’s horrible,” Bylead says, the word too soft. Insufficient for what was being said. Spoken only so Sylvain stops. Something like anxiety rasps against Bylead’s chest, something horrible and full of pain.

Sylvain leers. Taunting.

“Even as a little kid, I understood why he was like that. My mere existence stole everything from him. I have no right to complain about anything when I have everything he could not have,” Sylvain straightens, the muscles of his back tensing, a little twist as his form shifts into something Bylead recognizes from Jeralt. A cavalier’s stance before he goes for his lance. Too inexperienced and openly telegraphed for Bylead to miss. Sothis hisses a little, her fingers digging into Bylead’s arms but he doesn’t take a step back, only peers up at Sylvain, reading bitter hatred in brown eyes.

“You know, Professor,” Sylvain says, his voice like honeyed poison. Shoving pass Bylead to retrieve a hammer and new horseshoe, “I'm a bit jealous. You were born correctly. Secondborn and Crestless. Free and unbound. Nobody pretended to like you. No one resented you. And Professor Byleth … well, I imagine if anyone so much as pointed malice at you she’d tear their throat out with her teeth.”

He drops the horseshoe and it makes a sharp empty sound that he doesn’t seem to notice. His knuckles white over the edge of the hammer.

“I kind of hate you for that … a spoiled brat without a Crest. Wallowing in the safety of people who gave a shit about you just for you. How lucky. You should have to pay for that. Hell of a heavy price, enough for a kingdom… Maybe I should be the one to collect the debt,” he says and Bylead feels for the Pulse under his fingers, twisting around his knuckles, feeling the edges of the world start to blur.

“Ha!” Sylvain says with a bright exaggerated whoop, “Gotcha! Wow, you shoulda seen the look on your face just then. don't mind me, Professor. After all, ladies love a dark and brooding noble.”

Sothis tugs at the Pulse between Bylead’s fingers but he grips it tighter. Refuses her interference. The blur burns away from the edges. Time ticking slow and steady, the feel of it like a silk ribbon beneath Bylead’s hands.

He feels her tug again and yanks it far out of her reach, something angry and full of teeth rising in his own chest. Something old and long-held stirred from slumber, a little beast shaking off sleep from deep within the core of him. Something he’d never registered. Had refused to see. A little petulant thing full of unjust hatred. Shaped in misplaced anger fueled by impotence.

Bylead coils the thready Pulse around his hands, holding it tight, far away from Sothis as he bends to retrieve the horseshoe from the floor. Defiance in his blood like a serpent as he shows his back to Sylvain. Refusing to acknowledge the little shift of Sylvain’s foot as if he intended to swing the hammer down.

“Maybe,” Bylead says when he comes back up, holding Sylvain’s eyes as he presses the horseshoe into the cavalier’s hand, "Maybe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooohhh boy - thought i abandoned ya'll didn't ya
> 
> i had this written down last week and lost half of it when my computer crashed 
> 
> it's really a pain rewriting things especially because you had it just goddamn RIGHT the first time around :/ 
> 
> also lost chunks of the later chapters i had scribbled down as placeholders *head in hands, sobbing* so definitely getting slowed down a little but im not giving up this story - WE'RE TOO DAMN FAR TO QUIT AND EVERYONES TOO SAD


	20. White Clouds: Regret

The order for execution comes from up high.

The Goddess’ ordinance from the mouths of ordinary men.

Holy words on plain scripture. Tied to a name that was not her own.

Catherine’s face is smooth and clear as she reads Rhea’s orders. Her voice does not shake and her stance does not falter, in stark contrast to the members of the Western Church kneeling at her feet. Her expression is untroubled as she looks to those Rhea has judged, unmoved by Lonato's look of hatred. Caring little for a man broken to nothing in his own home.

“May the Goddess have mercy on your souls,” Catherine recites as if she is a young nun learning to read. Someone shaped in piety, devoted to her goddess, wearing faith on her shoulders, and crowning herself with belief.

That same heavy faith that had brought Lonato his crusade and bent his knees now.

The line between sacred and blasphemous drew so perilously thin.

Jeralt feels his lips curl.

Bitterness ages poorly. Turns sour and foul, burning the back of his throat as he remembers a time when he’d stood in Catherine’s stead. Spoken Rhea’s words as his own and bore a pride that made his chest beat so hard it hurt.

_“We can only do our best for Lady Rhea.”_

Simple words from a child soldier.

“We had nothing to do with the Western Church,” one of the men beside Lonato blurts out, something incomprehensible drawing over his face.

“You’ve already been identified,” Catherine scoffs, “Spare me.”

“What?! T - this isn’t what we were told – we were deceived!”

Lonato grinds his teeth. The corners of his mouth turning in a snarl. A Kingdom noble through and through. Who cared nothing for excuses and thought little of those who begged for their lives.

“You think the Goddess would forgive our execution?!”

“Monster – you’ve already slaughtered many of our brethren lik–“

Jeralt feels Byleth twitch beside him, her expression turning pensive. A bloodhound caught on prey. Scenting foul politics in the air and looking to pursue. Unaccustomed to the odor and reek that came with it and aching to pin it down.

Jeralt leans heavily against the wall. He’s so tired of war and execution. Words of protests ringing in his ears like bells. Familiar excuses. Justifications. Half-truths. He was so weary of seeing the same haunted faces and sallow fear as the ones on the remaining Gaspard servants. Common folk who’d tied their fates to nobility, fearing for their necks and wondering on their consequences. Preparing themselves to be judged on ideals they thought nothing on.

“Take them away,” Catherine dismisses, “This investigation’s concluded. We can finally depart this Goddess-forsaken land once the execution has been carried out.”

She rises to leave. Steps too close to Lonato like a dare. Her stance loose and easy. Goading him into one last attempt. Out of cruelty or guilt. It was impossible to tell. She does not meet Jeralt’s eyes as she strides out of the main chambers. Knowing and trusting her guards to carry out what she – what Rhea – had commanded.

“Let’s go,” a knight grunts as she grabs for one of the Western soldiers.

“No - wait!”

Lonato says nothing as they pull him to his feet. Refuses to stumble or bow on his broken leg. Stubbornly mute when someone grips his broken arm and shoves him ahead. The picture of a martyr in a mass of sinners, distancing himself well away from those of the Western Church protesting for their innocence.

The Gaspard child grabs for Byleth in a fit of terrified urgency and Jeralt’s mouth fills with iron as he tries not to yank him from her, understanding well what he meant to ask.

“Lord Lonato… I –” a plead cast out in sorrow. Desperation twisted up with fear. Begging for favor, heedless of the cost.

Jeralt was too old for these requests. Too aged to play at heroics anymore. Incapable of stretching his hands for anyone who pleaded. No longer knight of fairy tales. Meant to be turned to pasture.

And Lonato was the same.

The former lord acknowledges neither name nor former title. His face impassive as stone as he passes his son. His back straight and his head tall as he walks to his death. Blinding himself to a child he had forgotten and now cannot acknowledge.

“Ashe,” Byleth’s voice is soft.

Ashe doesn’t look at her until Lonato leaves his sight.

“I – Profes–“ he cuts himself off, shaking his head as he leans against Byleth’s arm.

The movement jars her enough her breathing pattern changes as she takes his weight. Her breath going stiff and controlled, working carefully around the injuries Jeritza had left her with. A sound like drowning. Slow and subtle. The air escaping in careful mouthfuls, slipping away as waters come up over her.

“We can –“

“Byleth,” Jeralt stills her words with a command, meeting her eyes when she looks at him sharply.

Surprised by his tone then wary. Disagreement thrumming in her body like war drums.

Jeralt refuses to cave.

Terror is cold in his chest. Silver fingers of a lady made of ice strumming dissonant cords in him.

His children are too young for war. Too young to be soldiers tangled and lost beneath the heels of those more powerful. Jeralt had done that much for them at least. Kept them free as mercenaries and untouched by the blight that was Fodlan governance.

It had been the only thing he’d been able to keep them from.

“This isn’t what we were promised!” one of the Western Church screams.

Byleth bows her head. Her jaw ticks as she looks down at Ashe, patting his hair a little awkwardly as she silences the offer she’d been about to make.

Their silent argument burning in the air between her and Jeralt.

“Alright Cap'n?" one of his mercenaries slide behind him as Jeralt walks away, voice a bare whisper. Almyran born and Fodlan raised. Knowing caution in a way Byleth did not.

Jeralt glimpses the Leicester lordling as he approached Byleth. Something sweet and dangerous on his tongue as he pulls Ashe away from Byleth with skillful words. Purring something comforting though his gaze is shrewd and prying. Doing nothing to melt the ice in Jeralt’s blood.

Because Byleth cannot be digging into matter not her own. Cannot dirty herself with a duty that is not hers. Bloody herself for –

Jeralt rubs his face.

There was a curse to living too long. Marked him a forgotten prophet who saw old faces and ghosts in every newborn. Caught in a flow of time that would only ever run circular.

Familiar politics and the call of the Church’s dealings drawing over him like a weight. A set of rusted chains. Pitted metal twisting tight around his limbs.

“There were troops in Magdred that escaped,” he says, “Dig up what you can.”

“And you Cap?” accompanied by a warning look.   


“Leave me alone, I’m an old man now. I don’t have any real power anymore. I’m just here to keep the kids out of trouble,” Jeralt says, summoning humor and failing.

The smile on his face pulls too tight. The rictus of a walking corpse as he follows in Lonao’s footsteps out the door.

* * *

Conand Tower exists in a mournful space, the sole structure in a barren wasteland of pale weeds and broken weapons. A dark grave marker erect in an empty graveyard. The day’s little sunlight and thin rain did little to lift the mood away from a morning funeral.

Sothis steps away from Bylead, her form shimmering and pale in the sunlight. She looks as if she might blow out with the wind as she trails fingers along the tower’s even brick and meticulous build. Her expression goes pinched and stiff the longer she looks. Her unease spilling over into Bylead’s side of their connection, tinged with a sense of repulsion as if he’d stuck his hand into rotting fruit.

_“More memories?”_

_“No,”_ and she refuses to say more as she comes back to stand by Bylead’s side again, _“Save your worries for the battle ahead.”_

Her gaze goes behind Bylead and he does not have to look to know she is indicating Sylvain and Annette, feeling her distrust for himself like a heated brand.

“Conand Tower has long since been abandoned,” Dimitri says as he approaches.

“This area was the site of a massive battle several hundred years ago,” Gilbert says, “When invasions from the north were at their peak.”

“It will be difficult to seize,” Ingrid agrees as she dismounts her pegasus. There’s an uncharacteristic anxiety in her. Evident in the look she flashes Sylvain as he comes up behind her.

Felix snorts at her words, his fingers light over his blade as he examines the edge yet again, “Save your worthless concerns. I have no intention of falling today.”

Privately, Bylead agrees, feeling an itch beneath his skin. An unusual desire for battle over words. He taps a little restless rhythm against his chest as he eyes the tower, wondering if this is how it felt to step in his sister’s shoes. To look forward and see nothing but a fight that needed to be overcome. To be able to break down goals into such simplistic terms.

“Professor. Did you see the local villages?” Dimitri asks, his voice closer than Bylead had expected. The prince’s hand hovers at Bylead’s shoulder but he seems to think better of it, ducking his head a little as he steps back, “They were in rough shape, no doubt because of the thief attacks. They’re not going to make it through the winter in that condition.”

Did Byleth feel so burdened each time Bylead stilled her hands with his worries and sympathy? Did she want to turn away every time he’d asked her to still her blade?

Incompetence warps around him like straps. Buckles round his ankles anchored to boulder.

“We’re here for Miklan. Don’t let your focus stray. The villagers … we’ll see what we can do afterward,” Bylead says.

Lightning crackles in Bylead’s palm, dancing over calloused skin and making him both hot and cold.

“If the thieves had taken up pillaging to survive, that would be deplorable … but understandable. But this is something else entirely. As if they destroyed those villages purely for pleasure. No matter their reasons. That sort of behavior cannot be allowed. Ever.”

“Don’t bother losing your head over those lowlifes your Highness. It’s a wasted effort,” Sylvain says on a laugh.

“Sylvain … the thieves’ leader who stole the relic… I know he has been disowned but –“

“So he’s nothing more than a common thief,” Sylvain interrupts, “No longer a member of House Gautier. Or my brother.”

“Are you sure about that? It would be understandable to find this situation … regrettable, to say the least.”

Sothis bristles as Sylvain approaches, stepping between him and Byleadas if her incorporeal form could serve as a shield and barricade. The Pulse thrums in the center of her palm like a heartbeat, steady and sure. A moment’s call away.

Unable to see her, Sylvain still manages to stop in front of her, aiming a smile at Bylead that burns like the fire raised in hand. The flames cast Sylvain’s expression in a harsher light. Thin tendrils of smoke bleeding into the air as drops of rain touch his palm.

“Shall we, Professor?” Sylvain asks as if he is asking for a dance, “And don’t hold back for my sake. Some people need to pay for what they’ve done.”

And with no hesitation, hurls the fireball skywards. Red and gold roar together as flames. Fire licking through the opening of a machicolation.

A bowstring loosens and Bylead steps into battle with bitterness on his tongue and resentment at his back.

* * *

In another life, Miklan bears the title of heir and the pride of an able commander. Excels as a lone force in Gautier and stalls Sreng’s invasions with a name alone as Lord Holst does for the Leicester Alliance.

In this life, he turns his talents inwards. A fox cub bred to be a dog turning on cruel masters and in doing so brands itself traitor, threat, and disappointment.

Miklan is Sylvain’s shrewd cleverness honed by years of resentment and abandonment, made razor-sharp by experience. He fights with the dogged determination of a cornered fox, baring fang and teeth on all those who looked his way.

There are snipers in the ceilings. Mages beneath ground. People turned into traps. Blades and spells in hidden doorways and narrow staircases. All evidence of a man who knew how to twist his small numbers to his advantage and could direct troops with ease. Someone who crafted chaos. Bred confusion. Built his advantage.

“Disappointment,” does not leave Sylvain’s mouth again only swears as he’s overwhelmed by axe wielders and archers.

He grows fire in one hand and swings a lance in another, knuckles whitening around his weapon as a flying axe scores a line up his collarbone, denting the armor hard. The flames in his left palm flicker and wave like a candle, flying wide as he loses his grip on the spell. Bylead and Felix sweep in to take his place as additional forces bleed into the narrow hallways like a broken blood vessel. Twin lightning trails rending the air in front of them.

“Back,” Felix snaps as he seizes a fistful of Bylead’s jacket, tugging for no more than a second before he swings an arm around Sylvain and presses them against the wall.

Bylead ignores him, pulling lightning from the air and swinging it like whips around them, gritting his teeth around the advice to retreat, something vicious and heavy in his chest as he lets Thunder rip from him in one great heave. Arrows rush down to greet him, chiding him for his impudence, grazing his shoulders and cheeks as he rolls out of the way at the last second. They pit the ground he’d previously stood on, making a forest of slender weapons. A muted chorus goes off above him, sounds of pain and reshuffling echoing down over him as Bylead rushes up the stairs, keeping tight to the walls. He throws lightning again and again until his fingertips go numb and the ribbons of electricity start to pitter down into sparks. Iron lights the back of his tongue, the feel as if he’d run his tongue over the ridge of a nail.

Felix’s footsteps are an echo behind his. His new blade gleams white-hot each time he throws an arch of lightning, striking would-be assailants and gliding over Bylead’s shoulders to pierce armor and flesh. So painfully reminiscent of Byleth with his light steps and clever blade, Bylead nearly falls to his knees the first time Felix engages an axe wielder in Bylead’s place.

The swordsman doesn’t say anything, too preoccupied with the heavy press of units but his lips flatten in disapproval, glaring when Bylead stumbles. He makes a noise like a snort as he goes after a troop of mages, fire in one hand and lightning in the other. His slender shoulders squared as if he can carry them all on his back.

Bylead winds his arm back, hurls fire from his fingers, and when it engulfs a man’s head and makes Felix pause, he only takes the opportunity to run ahead.

He hears someone call for him but turns a deaf ear to it, only thinking of the battle ahead. There is a scent in the air, too sweet and too bitter all at once, tickling the tip of his nose and lingering on the very edge of his awareness. He disregards it quickly in favor of pressing ahead.

As Byleth would have.

Mage fire and smoke erupt beneath him just as he reaches the penultimate floor, highlighted by the familiar green of Wind. A great billow of smoke lunges over his shoulders like a bear and he gasps at the heat as he crumbles against the doorframe. Splinters dig into his palm as the floor rocks again, powerful enough he crumbles to his knees.

“Prof –“ Dimitri’s voice cuts off, choking on the smell, “I – There are mages behind!”

Sure enough, a score of lightning flies out at Bylead from behind, razing over his cheeks and nose as he turns, just narrowly missing his head. Fury and pain rumble deep in his chest, annoyance at his own lack of foresight.

_“Cool your head,”_ Sothis says tightly and her voice, so clear in the midst of battle, startles him hard.

Irritated, he pulls away from her, throwing up a wall between their connection when he spies Miklan above them all. The top floor is visible from here and Bylead barely registers the row of archers in front of Miklan. Instead, Bylead draws fire from his stomach, feels it coil and curl, twisting like serpents in his chest and throat as he fires high. A vicious satisfaction tightening in his belly as Miklan shouts in alarm.

An older sibling thrown off his plans. A mission easily completed.

A golden orange lance waves wildly in Miklan’s hands as he beats the flames out.

The sight of it makes Sothis cringe, revulsion so potent Bylead gags on a thick mouthful of bile, feeling it as if it were his own emotions even with the wall between them. The lance is a too knobby thing with too many spikes. Something poorly crafted and wrestled into shape. Bylead doesn’t think he is imagining the way the spikes twitch and curl. It reminds him of an enormous paw grasping for someone.

Sothis makes a noise Bylead barely hears, his attention on Miklan, holding his gaze steadily. Orange hair still smoldering from the flames, Miklan looks down at Bylead but only for a moment. His eyes skimming over Bylead. Seeking out someone else. And when he finds them, Miklan’s entire body changes.

Bylead had never seen hatred overcome a person before but it physically warps the man. Seeps out from beneath his skin, bleeding out of every pore and swallowing him whole. Something ugly and dark comes over his face as he bites down so hard on his lip it starts to swell and bleed.

“Ha,” Sylvain huffs a laugh, his eyes finding his brother’s immediately. The sound is like a bee sting by Bylead’s side. Pain in one sharp stick. Striking hard and true before bleeding out into an internal ache that did not leave. It’s a noise so fraught with emotion, it lands at their feet liked leaded weights.

Bylead can feel the sharp edge of a rift scoring one long hideous scar in the air, threatening to engulf everyone in the room. Made of heavy anger and rotted resentment rooted in circumstances neither sibling had chosen.

Bylead loses hold of his impatience, feeling a tight knot in his chest loosen at the look in Sylvain’s eyes, made still by the haunted longing in them as Sylvain looks to a brother he would never know.

_Byleth crumbles in his arms, her expression pale and loose, her fingers slacken against her stomach, releasing organs she’d been keeping in place. His sister is so silent. So still. No longer able to speak orders. Jeritza runs at them, choking on his own blood even as he swings and Bylead sinks a dagger between his eyes. Feeling no remorse. Grief and terror searing away his emotions as he grabs for the Pulse yet again._

“Sylvain …” Bylead reaches out.

And then the world explodes.

Someone screams. Shrill and high, jagged around the edges and too wet. Thick gurgles as they choke on their own cries. The cries of someone dying.

Annette.

Gilbert’s cry of dismay is guttural. Bloated with despair.

“Professor!” Dimitri grabs at Bylead, breaking out between Sylvain and Felix to cover him as the wall beside Bylead groans and shifts.

Strong arms slide around Bylead’s back, wide hands gentle over Bylead’s shoulders. Dimitri buckles beneath an axe to his shoulder, his entire body cringing in pain.

Twin tendrils of smoke bleed over Sylvain and Felix. A familiar smoked heat holding the smell of –

_“Burnt flesh,”_ Sothis whines, her complexion matching her hair as she wobbles, holding her hands to her head. Trembling apart beside him.

A memory floats up unbidden. Of a massacre and cruel experiments. Of children too young for battle much less war and their –

Another Fire explodes in the open doorway. The heat searing over Felix’s chest like a blooming flower and to his credit, he doesn’t scream in pain only shouts –

“Dammit! Where’s my weapon? I can’t … see –“

And Sylvain, as the flames rip up over his shoulders with color the same as his hair and heat and power as great as his tempered rage, smiles. His gaze never leaves his brother. Goes from hard and grim to vulnerable. His gaze finding Miklan’s and it’s full of empty weight, searching for something that is not there.

“Heh …” Sylvain closes his eyes as the flames crawl up his arms, “I figured… it would end like this.”

Sothis gasps, trembling as she digs her fingers into Bylead’s shoulders. There are more bandits beside them. The wall crumbling apart to reveal more reinforcements.

Bylead twines the Pulse around one hand as he drags an arm over Dimitri’s back, grounding himself in the weight and feel of the prince. Dimitri looks at him wide-eyed, dark terror in his eyes.

_“Professor, I remember every face that fell before my feet.”_

Blue follows Bylead backward and down the tower as he grabs for a different future, remorse and bitterness pulling him through. 

* * *

It takes two more tries to reach Miklan.

Felix dies the second time from an axeman and snarls at Glenn to get out of his way when Bylead catches him.

Sylvain dies laughing the next time, mocking and derisive at Miklan’s foul swears.

_“Why have you come, you Crest bearing fool?”_

_“Still blaming me for something that isn't my fault? I didn’t come to humiliate you but I will–“_ as the Lance of Ruin punctures his throat.

“Surrender,” Bylead growls the final time, straddling Miklan’s waist as he pins the Lance of Ruin to the ground.

His daggers are firmly planted between Miklan’s fingers, running warm with blood. Dimly, he can hear Dedue, Annette, and Mercedes finishing their battles behind him. The sound of metal on metal slowly tapering off in the stairwell combined with Dimitri’s shouted orders, ringing out clear and strong, speak of a battle won.

Still, defiance rears in Miklan’s eyes, the small feral body of a rodent running on self-serving instinct.

“Return the lance and you can walk away,” Bylead tells him, “This is no place to die.”

Sothis cringes away as Miklan clings harder to the lance. His nails digging bloody half-moons into his palm, spotting the lance's handle as he tries to pull his hand away.

Bylead’s arms ache at the strain.

The Pulse wears heavily on his body, overlapping with the weariness from spells cast in another time. His fingertips are numb and twitching, feel as if they hold sparks still and cannot discharge them. Iron and soot coat his mouth. A desert dryness rasps his throat, rubbing his words raw.

Bylead breathes out slow as he starts to drag his daggers downwards, letting them bite between the thin flesh of Miklan’s middle and ring fingers.

“You have no more men. No more options,” Bylead says, “What are you looking to –“

Miklan spits in his face, a rictus grin spreading wide over bloodied lips, “I died a long time ago. You think you have anything to threaten me with? A brat like you?”

“It’s not a threat. I only … do not want to kill you.

Miklan’s grin pulls wider as if smiling were a Gautier defense mechanism, turning derisive. So like Sylvain, Bylead feels a pang in his chest.

“Soft-hearted for a knight aren’t you?”

“Not a knight. Only a mercenary.”

“Even worse,” Miklan sneers.

The similarities overlap. Sylvain bleeding into Miklan, tethered together by rigid anger and cold resentment.

Sothis shifts by Bylead’s side but otherwise says nothing. Her fingers against the pulse like a trigger. Her eyes are fixed on the lance in Miklan’s hands. As if it will come to life and lunge at her. He can sense her displeasure at drawing this out but is grateful she does not speak on it. He has only her sense of unease to deal with as he tries again to extend a hand to Miklan.

“I don’t like killing,” Bylead offers as explanation and Miklan laughs uproariously.

An animalistic sound far too shrill and jagged around the edges. As if he’d hit the limits of sanity.

“Professor?” Annette asks, holding a Wind in front of her as she approaches them.

Bylead can hear Dedue approaching as well, solemn heavy steps drawing close. Can see the faint glow Mercedes’ glyph in his periphery.

“Professor, do you need –?" Annette cuts herself off, words lost in uncertainty. 

Miklan's laughter fades in increments, something darker and more hateful sliding into place, piece by piece. A brick and mortar wall made of hatred and resentment.

“You’re not kidding,” Miklan says in an odd tone. As if he is testing the words on his tongue, "A merc with morality. Foolish. Idiotic morality.”

And then he lunges, slams his head against Bylead’s temple, leaving behind two fingers against Bylead’s blades as he does. A sickening crack like thunder erupts between them as Bylead’s vision blanks out. There is screaming all around him and a blast by his ear informs him Annette’s loosened Wind.

“What a carefree life you must have led,” Miklan snarls in Bylead’s ear and there is the unmistakable press of a blade against Bylead’s ribs.

Like a sword falling into its sheath, the Lance of Ruin slides into Bylead in a slow easy glide.

Sothis screams, revulsion so strong it strangles Bylead. A chorus of ‘get it out’ erupting in his mind. Her focus utterly on the feel of the _thing_ inside of him, of it _wriggling_ like a newborn’s hands grasping at his organs, playing them like instruments.

Bylead gasps wetly, lungs burning as agony locks his body in a stone grip. His vision clears enough for him to look Miklan in the eye. There’s a smile on Miklan’s face. The pink belly of his scar pulling taut as he adopts a noble’s disposition meant for a roundtable discussion.

His scrutiny burns as he looks Bylead up and down, prying for secrets with lunatic greed, “I hate brats like you the most. Leading happy-go-lucky lives without offering proper payment. Fuck your feeble morality, merc –“

The lance twists inside him and Sothis’ shriek reverberates in his skull.

_That terrible weapon. Made of flesh and bone. Ripped from the still body of her own –_

So strong he gags on a mouthful of vomit, the acid choking the air from his throat and lungs. Pooling in the back of his –

The Pulse drops from Bylead’s fingers, spitting him out from the river of time’s flow.

He releases one of his daggers in order to block Miklan’s head, ramming his elbow hard into Miklan’s nose. There is a sharp crunch and then a thick blurt of blood against Bylead’s arm. Miklan snarls as he sinks his teeth into Bylead’s arm like a feral animal, tackling him to the ground.

Wind sings as it soars over Bylead’s head, the green magic kissing his forehead as it snares Miklan and throws him backward. The Lance of Ruin clatters to the ground beside him and he scrambles after it like a trained hound.

“Professor!”

Bylead accepts Annette’s offered hand, his vision swimming as he stands. Bile and vomit blocking his throat as his knees crumble. He grimaces, feeling Annette stiffen as she grabs for his shoulders, struggling to hold him upright. Her bony shoulder presses hard into his rib cage. Where the lance had previously sat.

Bylead doubles over in a cough, eyes lighting on the dagger he still has planted in the ground. Seeing two bloody fingers left behind, half curled like the spikes on the Lance of Ruin.

“Never had to pay for that carefree life of yours, eh merc?” Miklan shouts and Bylead tackles Annette to the ground to duck the Lance of Ruin as it swings out, “Well, that changes now.”

The glow burns at Bylead’s eyes. His vision swims with colors as Miklan swings the lance again. With each swing, the lance burns brighter.

Dimly, he’s aware of Sothis curling in on herself, shutting herself away. The Pulse slides away from him just as she goes. The steady beat of it falling just beyond his grasp.

He grasps for Fire instead, feeling heat at his fingertips and then nothing.

Embers bleeding into smoke as a shadow grows over them.

“Goddess, Professor!” Annette clings to his arm sleeve, as she tries to stand, leaning heavily into him as a shiver racks her body.

The shadow is humanoid at first and then like a macabre puppet show twists and groans, shuddering as its limbs flail, caught in a too eager puppetmaster’s hands. An audible snap like the crack of branches in fire accompanying its flailing limbs.

“W-what?! What is this?” a voice full of the terrible knowing fear of one who knew death knocked on their door and did not want to open it.

Miklan’s body twists violently. A black waxy thing leaks out from the Lance of Ruin to snare his entire body, curling over his joints with the intimacy of a lover. Holding tighter and tighter until his flailing stills and then –

Snap!

Miklan shrieks and it sounds like the rabbit so long ago.

_“I don’t want to kill.”_

_“Fine, I’ll do it for you.”_

Bylead spares one thought for his sister, wishing desperately for her steadiness and then feels his stomach give way as he remembers her new sword. The stark violent shape of it pressing up to the forefront of his mind as a nightmare unfolds before him. 

Miklan’s eyes go glassy, his skin waxen and pale as the dark mass starts to envelop his throat and jaw. In his hands, still wrapped tight in a white-knuckled grip is the Lance of Ruin, glowing placidly, bleeding that black goo from its center point.

“The lance. Oh goddess,” Annette hiccups, her entire body trembling, “I-it’s _devouring_ him.”

The black mass moves with a little whisper and a sigh, clinging to Miklan’s lips, pulling his jaw opens and Bylead tugs Annette backward, horror wiping his mind clear of everything but this creature before him.

“Mi –klan?!” Sylvain’s voice goes from victorious to uncertain, coming to an abrupt stop hard enough neither Felix nor Dimitri manage to move him when they run into his back.

Miklan looks at who was once his brother. Lips pursing then parting. A gush of the black mass spills past them in thick rivulets. The sides of Miklan’s mouth cracking apart like a fraying seam. Struggling around words that bubble, laden down and weighted by the black material as if there were something sticking to Miklan’s vocal cords and drowning him from within.

“C-crest bearing f-fo – ol – Kill! You!”

The black slides over his cheek and then digs into him like a great bear, it slithers into his eyes and cheeks like one massive claw, tearing into the skin and there’s a shout from Annette, nearly half-mad in fright as the skin begins to flay. Miklan’s jaw goes loose with one great pop. A piece of skin flesh open as he roars his final words.

“Kill. You!”

And in Miklan Anschutz Gautier’s place stands one enormous black beast howling at the skies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone's staying home, safe and healthy 
> 
> how's quarantine life been? anyone else using animal crossing to pretend the outside world doesn't exist?


	21. White Clouds: Inheritance

What-was-once-Miklan lunges for Sylvain with a many fanged smile and a long howl that rounds out in the corners and rings hollow in Sylvain’s chest. Sylvain’s knees lock as his fingers go numb and stupid over his lance.

There is a blow coming to his face and he cannot make his feet move.

Felix’s elbow drives hard into Sylvain’s stomach, bony limb digging painfully enough Sylvain crumbles. Sylvain’s savior curses foully as the black beast’s arm shoots overhead and slams into the edge of the doorway. Stone comes away in its massive paw in enormous chunks.

“Down!” Dimitri roars, taking Sylvain to the ground, the prince’s hands cradling Sylvain’s head to keep from slamming into stone.

Lightning arches over the two of them, Felix standing strong against just another enemy, his amber eyes narrowed in concentration. Sylvain can read fear in the painful grip Felix has on his sword.

Electricity crackles along slick black scales, dancing up the beast’s arms in long streaks.

The creature roars and it sounds like a half-human scream. It spins on its back legs with what should have been a dancers grace were it not for its enormous girth and ungainly limbs. As a result, it looks like a torn puppet in a cruel theatre. Its too-long limbs and neck swivel roughly, twisting so hard Sylvain swears he hears the snap and twist of bone, wondering hysterically if Miklan were in there still.

Shaken.

Like he’d longed to do to Sylvain as a babe.

A wide shadow leaps over them as the creature brings one massive claw towards Felix.

Blaiddyd’s Crest burns the air as Dimitri lunges between the two of them, grunting as he buckles beneath the weight of the creature’s weight. They lock for a moment, strength equal enough that neither of them give.

And then several things happen at once.

Dimitri’s lance cracks. The handle splinters and Sylvain sees fear for the first time in a long while reflected in Dimitri’s blue eyes. It was a bright, childish sort of alarm that came alone, without the constant dredge of death and misery Dimitri bore on his shoulders. One clear shining moment where some instinctive beast within him cried out in concern for his own life.

Sylvain is nearly relieved.

“Boar!” Felix screams. The Shield of Faerghus moving for his king.

“Your Highness!” from Ingrid who hurls her lance into the beast’s mouth out of sheer desperation, her voice strained with terror.

A roar of Fire consumes the beast from the neck up just as Felix tackles Dimitri around the waist, the two of them going down hard against the ground as the creature shrieks and turns on the Professor and Annette.

Like the mercenary he claimed to be, the Professor doesn’t even flinch though he looks pale as a corpse, a bruising beneath his eyes and a horrible waxy pallor to his skin betray his overuse of spellwork. The Professor barely twitches, shoving Annette to the side roughly as the beast lumbers towards them and sending her flying into Dedue who stumbles at the new weight and blocks Mercedes coming from behind.

Sylvain feels time spiral to a slow crawl, drip down into coarse grains of sand moving through the bottleneck of an hourglass in painful drops.

He is aware of Felix and Dimitri steadying themselves beside him. Of Dedue straightening Annette to a stable stance and Mercedes coming around with a bright glyph at her fingertips. Ingrid without her weapon, borrowing another from a dead man. Gilbert and the rest coming up the stairs.

There were so many of them yet all of them far too slow.

Dimitri and Felix haven’t noticed the Professor yet, do not see the way the beast lurches over the Professor with malicious hunger. Dedue and Annette, both momentarily blinded by a distraction of the Professor’s doing. Everyone around Sylvain struggling to react except for him.

Sylvain feels for Fire and it comes like a well-trained dog, twisting round his knuckles and spiraling over his fingers as he slowly raises the flame.

And then the Professor looks at him.

For one long moment that exists in the blink of an eye. Sylvain sees something low simmering yet overwhelming. An uncertainty in the Professor’s face.

Concern.

And then _pity_.

Something dark and hideous rears inside Sylvain like a wild horse. Throws his goodwill and basic humanity to the ground and shatters it beneath raging hooves as it screams with hatred and vile jealousy. Fire dies in Sylvain’s fingers, his limbs stiffening as he slides his flames away, unrepentant jealousy seizing his throat as Miklan had so many years ago, choking the humanity from him and –

The Professor disappears beneath the black beast.

“Professor!” Dimitri’s scream echoes like a lone banshee as the black beast slams face-first into the wall, swallowing up the Professor in its great cavernous mouth as it does so.

The prince lunges across the room with a terrifying growl, grabs for one massive leg and bodily throws the creature backward. Caught halfway in the creature’s mouth, the Professor comes with it. Sylvain glimpses one pale hand groping along the creature's snout and then slamming into the beast’s white eye. The Professor surfaces with a harsh gasp, still halfway in the creature’s mouth. He’s holding to the lance Ingrid had thrown, angling it in the creature’s throat so it dug painfully into sensitive flesh and kept it screaming.

Thick rivulets of blood blot out half of the Professor’s face. His lips pull in a flat grimace and then Thunder explodes in the creature’s eye. The Professor doesn’t scream, only husks a groan, the veins of his neck popping as electricity licks up through the opened eye socket, crackling up the Professor’s arm.

"Move!" Felix snaps at Sylvain.

Sylvain cannot tell whether he means to move aside or move to assist. Stumbling on trembling legs, Sylvain tries a step forward as the creature starts to writhe, half-mad with pain as it throws itself and the Professor about the room. One massive white eye flicks to Sylvain and it screams at him, ejecting the Professor from his mouth as it starts to stomp towards him, screaming a noise that sounds like a name.

Bile rises in Sylvain’s throat, thick and acidic, burning as it choked the back of his throat. His Fire goes wide, skids off the creatures’ flesh. From behind, the Professor closes in on it, slamming a borrowed lance into the creature’s blinded eye hard enough it veers sideways.

And again, that concern. Followed by understanding.

It is too much too suddenly.

Sylvain turns.

Vomits.

He doubles over near the doorway as he empties his stomach, vomiting so hard he tears up with the effort as the world around him screams and rallies.

“It’s hide is too tough!” Annette sounds as if she’s on the verge of tears, “Oh, goddess – Professor!”

“Strike in the same place!” Ingrid shouts.

He hears Gilbert exchange orders with his knights.

Hears Dimitri roar something in a voice that teeters on the edge of sanity.

Then one explosion that throws Sylvain, followed by a great weeping scream from the creature, full of pain and regret, cracked down in the core.

Miklan raising his voice to the heavens and asking ‘Why’.

And then silence.

Sylvain gags, thin trails of saliva tracking down his chin as he raises himself to an unsteady stance just in time to see Miklan die.

The creature goes to ground, Felix’s sword crackling lightning in the eye the Professor had first taken. Dedue and Dimitri taking a leg each, Dimitri's fingers deep in the bone of its knee. Ingrid sinking a lance deep into the very center of its chest as Mercedes and Annette loosen twin Nosferatus that sink deep over where Ingrid had stabbed.

The beast slides off a human form as if it had been nothing more than a cloak donned for travel, black mass peeling away to a twitching body with Guatier red hair, sloping down over a brow they had both inherited from a father that cared little for either of them. Miklan’s expression is still torn, twisted into a scream. Restless even in death.

Slowly, Annette sags to the ground, her face ruddy with tears as she spins towards the Professor with a little cry of dismay.

Sylvain doesn’t dare approach, staring at the warped figure of what was once his brother, unable to reach for it. He senses Ingrid's eyes on him and flashes her a smile that is not his best, falters when she looks away with a heavy frown. 

“We should … have a funeral,” the Professor says quietly.

He clutches his arm, breathing slow and careful around what must be cracked ribs and Dimitri rushes to support him. The Professor’s head lolls a little against Dimitri’s chest, blue eyes glassy and blurred with pain as he glances to Sylvain.

As if asking permission.

As if he needed to.

Sylvain clutches his lance tight as he eyes the bloody mess that was the Professor’s left side, struggling to summon a smile.

A quip.

Anything.

“I - yes, of course,” Dimitri speaks first, sounding as if he would promise the Professor the world.

He doesn’t seem to notice the thick smear of blood against his chin and throat as he holds the Professor a little tighter, practically cradling the Professor in his lap.

_“Hey now your Highness, watch your hands,”_ dies in Sylvain’s throat as the Professor leans forward.

Left hand still twitching with stray sparks, the Professor reaches for Miklan, his expression like a nun granting last rites as he gently closes Miklan’s eyes.

Something hysterical and half-mad rattles in Sylvain, a noise that is both a laugh and a sob, slams against his teeth, threatening to pass. He cannot allow it. Knows the lunacy he would hear behind it.

His eyes alight on the Lance of Ruin lying dormant in Miklan’s hands like some impotent stick. In death, Miklan clutches it to his chest still like a child would a comforting toy.

And then Sylvain sees the mark.

A circle on Miklan’s chest. An imprint burned deep, through flesh and bone, pressed into place by the core of the Lance of Ruin and a few of its many fingers.

The shape of it like the Crest of Gautier.

Ingrid touches his shoulder lightly and Sylvain shoves her off hard unthinking.

Revulsion a thick roil in his gut.

Then hatred.

At his brother.

At himself.

Sylvain does what he has never done before. Not even all those years ago when he’d listened in the dark for Miklan’s steady footsteps approaching his room in the dead of night.

He flees.

* * *

“Been a long time since I’ve been back to the Kingdom,” Jeralt says as he walks into Lonato’s cell.

Behind him, one of his mercenaries closes the door.

“Times have really changed for a lord to raise a revolt against the church. His Majesty would be rolling in his grave.”

Lonato curls his lip, a dark disdain in his face as he looks at Jeralt but he does not speak.

“I remember this place pretty well,” Jeralt says, gesturing to the dungeon but meaning Gaspard, “Back when it was first being built. The land here used to be different. Used to be run by farmers instead of a lord.”

He hums a little, “Was born somewhere around here I reckon but the land's changed too much for me to tell. Just know that it was Kingdom territory. Back when the Kingdom had only devotees to the Church. Lining up to contribute to the building of Garreg Mach from their own pockets just to say they had done it. So many people crowing that they’d laid the first brick the next day.”

A slow dawning understanding draws across Lonato’s face. His blue eyes go wide and glassy in the firelight. The look of a man facing a truth he’d not fully accepted.

“How much do you know about this side of things?” Jeralt asks.

"The Church has been defiled by monsters playing at divinity," Lonato spits, full of accusation, “You serve a rotted goddess demanding the blood of innocent men. I should have known … you too, Sir Jeralt, would be one of those foul beasts.”

Jeralt snorts, “Spare me your moral high ground. I don’t need colorful descriptors from a man who tried to murder his son.”

“I will not be berated by the servant of a witch!” Lonato shouts and Jeralt holds up his hands in mocking surrender. It only makes Lonato angrier, a dark flush stealing over pale skin, “Not when the blood of my eldest is on her hands.”

“And what about Ashe?” Jeralt asks, “Less important? Just a small obstacle standing in the way of your holy right?”

Lonato looks as if he would throw himself against the bars in rage but holds it back, grinding his teeth so hard Jeralt is surprised they don’t crack. He breaks away from Jeralt with a mangled snarl, sitting back hard. He bows his head in furious silence flexing and unflexing his unbroken hand, squeezing his broken arm as if the pain could take away what happened in Magdred.

A meaningless act of self-flagellation.

“Your kind has already taken everything that I have. What more do you want from me, demon?” Lonato asks after a long moment and it is more resigned than Jeralt could have ever expected.

Gone is the proud martyr with clear insight, unbound and unchained by earthly ties.

Jeralt sits.

Looks an exhausted father in the eyes.

“To cut a deal,” Jeralt says.

“You think little of me if you believe I will bargain for my freedom.”

“What about for another chance at Rhea’s head?”

Lonato’s eyes flash.

“I want to know who’s behind you. I want a name and a contact,” Jeralt points at him, “You want vengeance without the messy factor of Ashe this time around. I think it's a simple trade.”

“Why?”

“Because I left the Church,” Jeralt tells him, “And I never intended to come back. You’re not the only one who’s lost… and Rhea is no friend of mine.”

_Not any longer._

Lonato’s lips thin as he looks at Jeralt. Measuring him in a gaze, “You expect me to believe you?”

“I don’t lay expectations at the feet of nobles. Bad business practice. Believe me or don’t,” Jeralt shrugs, “If we can’t come together on a deal I walk away. I saw the second force on that battlefield. The group that got away. Must’ve been gifted to you but not yours to control. Unfortunate for you but lucky for me. You aren’t the only one I can squeeze a contact out of.”

“Then why come for me at all?”

“Your kid asked for your life,” Jeralt says simply and Lonato’s expression goes slack with incredulity, some dangerous fervency in his eyes.

Complicated hope. Dismay. Guilt and aching regret.

“And mine would have tried to fulfill that request,” Jeralt says, “So I can’t allow that. Just like you couldn’t have allowed Ashe to be by your side at Magdred.”

Comprehension dawns in Lonato’s face and they look at each other for a long moment. Two fathers tied by understanding, old men seeped in bloody politics, made keen by experience.

“I don’t give a damn if the world burns and the Church crumbles,” Jeralt says lowly, “But they can’t be involved. Not them. Not my kids. Take anyone else’s brats but not mine.”

He leans forward, his teeth bared as he looks Lonato dead in the eye, “And I think you understand that, don’t you? Bet not a damn day goes by you haven’t wished for someone else to take Christophe’s place. Bet you know exactly who should have. Memorized the names and faces of close friends who were by him at the time and escaped with their neck. Wish judgment had skewed ever so slightly in their direction just to spare Christophe and I bet you saw them at roundtables and trade meetings and wished so hard you could choke on it.”

Lonato closes his eyes, the deep grooves of his mouth and brow etching deep as he bows his head. His breath rattles in the air, a low sickly sound full of grief.

“Yeah. Yeah, I bet,” Jeralt mutters, leaning back, “Not so different from this demon, are you? We have a deal?”

Lonato looks at him, mouth working around silent words.

He reaches out. 

* * *

There’s a sickness in Faerghus nobility.

Something rotten in their blood that teases at the edges of madness. A poison deep-rooted that, instead of killing them as if should have, sank deep beneath the skin, sank deep roots in the very soul of them that kept them open and bleeding. An open sore and festering wound carried on by soldiers that marched on and on endlessly.

Rot in noble blood.

Sylvain sees it in the utter devotion Lord Rodrigue lays over a gravestone. In the empty space between him and Felix where shared grief should go. In <strike>Gustave</strike> Gilbert’s self-flagellation with a whip lent from ghosts. Sees it in his younger friends who had to grow too quickly who struggled to fit in their own skin and blinded themselves in different ways to the others. In the terrifying emptiness in Dimitri’s eyes when he thought too long about Duscar and death.

Sylvain sees it here and now in front of a father with a frosted heart and a callous tongue. The same man who’d kicked away a son who clung to his pant leg like one would a small rodent.

“Good,” Margrave Gautier says on the night of Miklan’s death, looking genuinely pleased as he examines the lance. Speaking to it with soft tones as one would a son. 

His brow twitches as his long fingers trace the bloodied handle, derision making his face sharper as he cleans away the stain. More upset by mars on the blade than a son’s death.

“So… I’m guessing you called me for something –“

Sylvain resolutely does not flinch when the Lance of Ruin is held out to him.

Acid burns the back of his throat as he looks at the center core. It glows in Margrave Gautier’s hands, a bright beacon and a shining Crest linked together. The lance clicks like a logic puzzle. The claws twitching slowly as if pleased. Obedient in the hands of its true master.

For one delirious moment, Sylvain sees the black again. Sees it bubbling, foaming like a rabid dog, choking out the red and bleeding from the core. Sees it twisting up the handle with one great cavernous mouth.

Turning on –

“It is long past time you accepted your birthright,” Margrave Gautier says, “Ensure that this foolishness does not happen again.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Sylvain summons a smile as he takes it.

He refuses to think on the warmth of the handle. Does not think of how tightly and how closely his brother had held it. That this weapon leapt on Miklan like a live thing and consumed him. Does not think on the mark it’d branded into Miklan’s corpse, like some divine joke.

He twirls the lance between his hands with callous ease just to see if he can. Makes himself do it again, trying to rid the blurt of fear and revulsion coiling in his gut.

His father’s face twitch and when Sylvain tosses it lightly in his hands again, Margrave Gautier’s jaw clench.

“No words for Miklan?” the words come unbidden, stirred by morbid curiosity. 

Margrave Gautier’s expression curdles further like soured milk.

_How heartbreaking,_ Sylvain thinks, _if he could’ve seen it at least._

“I have one son,” Margrave Gautier says low and slow as if the words will become fact the more gravitas he pours into them.

_Did he still hold on to enough hope for his heart to break?_

“And one heir. The lance was taken by a bandit. I feel no pity or sorrow for thieves and as heir to Gautier, it would do you well to cast away worthless sympathy. Especially for those who intrude on our lands.”

Sylvain remembers the night Miklan had been dismissed. Can practically feel the imprint of large hands around his throat still and the thumb digging hard into the center of his throat. The bite of Miklan’s short nails digging in so desperately. Clinging to one last chance to be accepted.

That look on Miklan’s face when he’d realized that he was Gautier no longer. Only an ‘other’.

“It was good the Church did not have to be involved this time,” Margrave Gautier says.

_Do you regret Miklan? Do you think about your son?_

Sylvain does not have to ask to read the truth in Margrave Gautier’s eyes.

Margrave Gautier did not lose a son today. He’d rightfully defended him and his own against invaders and crowned an heir.

It was a good, blessed day.

One marked by victory.

_Do you think about Miklan?_

_No._

A plain and cruel truth.

“The state of the Kingdom these days is embarrassing. Rotted away by maggots such as these.”

Sylvain only smiles and does not correct him, only looks to the lance, smearing his thumb over the core and feeling it reverberate against his flesh. The beast in it crying out –

_One great cavernous mouth lurching up and over like a great wave, screaming as it lurched over the Professor as he stands back and leers._

– reaching for the rot within him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh poor sylvain
> 
> also guess who spent all of april on animal crossing? i might be a tad bit REALLY O B S E S S E D (anyone getting lucky with raymond hunting?)


	22. White Clouds: Hold of the Dead

Byleth tired of the dreams.

Of standing before a haunted thing who shared little of what she was besides an unquenchable hatred that felt rotted in Byleth’s hand. 

But the dreams found her nonetheless. 

As she had done nights before, Byleth steps off an inn bed onto green stone with no small amount of reluctance, the ghastly hue of the room swallowing away the neutral tones of a proper world. She walks down a singular path, taking care not to look after things in her periphery.

She had made that mistake once before.

Her nerves crackle with the awareness of other beings, feeling eyes and familiar faces looming over her in the corners. 

“That’s new,” Byleth tilts her head at the foot of the throne where Thunderbrand sat beside a new lance. 

And sat was the proper term, the thing’s fragile arms fold over its blade as it props itself, somewhat uncomfortably, against the foot of the throne, looking very much like a patient child told to sit and wait. Beside it, the new lance’s core beats a greeting at Byleth, the center point blooming red then dimming. Over and over in a steady rhythm like a pulse. It skitters across the floor like a centipede, and Byleth’s stomach curdles as its many limbs stroke over her foot. The tiny limbs wave like a babe asking to be picked up. 

Despite herself, Byleth reaches for it, always half-present in these dreams with a sense of command that wavered and dimmed. She lets it go instantly when the core bleeds black. Something dark and viscous bleeding out in thick clumps. The substance makes a garbled slurping noise as it slicks across the floor. A live thing, bubbling messily as if trying to speak. 

“Disturbing,” she says, ignoring the crawl of revulsion in her veins.

Thunderbrand brushes her foot and Byleth kicks it aside instinctively, grimacing as she watches it flail. 

The throne room fills with a low mournful cry and the creature utters a warning in a language Byleth does not understand but simultaneously does.

_Don’t touch my children. You would not like it if I did the same for your family._

“Yours look long dead,” Byleth says evenly with forced confidence, indicating Thunderbrand’s shape and then nods her head at the gape in the creature’s chest, “Like you. Maybe it’s time to let go.”

The room grows colder. Displeasure a palpable weight in the air. Hatred twisting the creature’s breath and making it harsh. The room thrums and the scene changes. 

A valley of stone rises up all around them, echoing with voices long gone. War creeps up around Byleth’s periphery, the smell of oil barrels and burning arrows singe her nose. A sour spoilt smell burdening the air, curdling into something rotted and cloying.

And she hears them again.

Two people stepping up beside her, the gait familiar but broken. She hears how silently one tries to walk, hears the low rasp of his breath over the scrape of his boot, telling of his strain and effort. Hears the low tink of another’s many blades, loosely tied so they rang out against one another.

Byleth grinds her teeth hard enough her jaw hurts, curling her fingers into fists as she steps closer to the throne. 

_Careless words from someone with a borrowed life. _

Someone falls behind her and Byleth shudders as a hand grazes her ankle. A groan shatters over her back, drawing gooseflesh as the hand gropes blindly for her.

“Byleth.” 

Bylead had never admitted he’d been frightened in the forest when they were eleven but she’d caught the silver flash of it hidden well in his voice. 

She hears it now.

The hand grips her leg, tugging in a silent plead. The fingers too thin and broken, slimy with blood.

“Kid.”

A thread of disappointment in Jeralt’s rough gravel, the stone solid comfort of his voice gone, his words mangled. Byleth looks down despite herself, breath turning to rock in her throat as she glimpses a crushed throat and broken face. The creatures in her periphery loom closer, familiar faces she did not know, summoned from memories she did not have. 

It’s not quite a blessing when the creature on the throne grabs for her jaw and lifts her gaze, holds her in a grip that bruises. 

_You, yourself, are no live thing, _the creature reminds her_, You were created. For me. And your lot in life is the same as mine. _

Two pairs of hands drag at her arms and something digs into her chest. A mark of the dream ending. The same old death sinking below her ribs. Something sharp and jagged wielded by someone improperly trained wiggling beneath her bones and jerking at her lungs, twisting with a manic frenzy, loosening pain in currents until at last … the sickening merciful crack of her sternum coming loose.

* * *

Nightmares, as with killings, grew numb on repeat viewings; the saturation of them bleaching out like a cloth with many washes.

So Byleth feels nothing when she looks at her father the next morning. Does not flinch away when he takes a plate from her and does not stare after the unbroken hand and well-scarred fingers that curl over the edge of her plate.

Similarly, she does not blanch when the news comes of Lonato’s escape and subsequent death. She, instead, holds Ashe together as he frays apart at the seams and does not insult him by pretending to share the emotion. Dreams were only dreams after all and there were more important truths to focus on.

Like the mere idea that a man with broken limbs could slip a prison of the Knights of Seiros and her father’s mercenaries. Her father’s mercenaries especially.

Jeralt looks at her solemnly, jaw ticking as he drops his gaze to the boy in her arms. His expression an appropriate level of grave as he sets a hand on Ashe’s shoulders and then throws one rough arm around him in a gruff attempt at comfort.

“Sorry kid.”

Byleth narrows her eyes at him, understanding her father well enough to smell half-truths on his words.

Ashe’s grip in Byleth’s sleeve is white-knuckled, his face pallid and drawn but his eyes dry as he utters a response that is half garbled at best, full of harsh syllables that pluck at his misery and try to wring the tears from him. His hands shake when Leonie and Hilda come to take him from Byleth. She allows them without hesitation. Noble and commoner children knew to offer comfort in ways a mercenary could not. Raphael and Caspar with boisterous good intentions. Ignatz and Marianne with their whispered prayers. Lorenz’s regrets, unmarred by his usual pomposity. 

If Jeralt and Bylead died, she would be offered vengeance and stoic understanding. As if it were worth the price of their lives.

“What did you do,” Byleth spits under her breath when the children are gone. Not meant as a question. More of a demand for an answer. Her words are steady despite the roar in her pulse. In her periphery, she can see the throne and those many faces. 

She grabs for Jeralt’s wrist, her fingers over the vulnerable underside, squeezing when he does not look at her. She can read a lie forming in the way his jaw ticks and the flicker of guilt that runs over his eyes. She can feel the prick of their mercenaries’ gazes, smelling battle on the edges. Something rising up at the corners. 

“Not going to play dumb with you kid,” Jeralt says eventually, an answer that says nothing as he walks away from her, his mercenaries at his back, filling spaces she’d once walked herself.

In her periphery the dreams creep up around her, painting the path behind him red. Cast shadows on him where there should be none and lends a ghastly vision of shattered bone and too much blood.

“Penny for your thoughts, Teach?”

Claude nudges her arm, offering a smile and a mug of something steaming and sweet with a spiced note unusual for Faerghus.

“My own personal stash,” he tells her with a puff of pride, “Food, like life, is unbearable without spice. Say, that was pretty good, wasn’t it? I could be a poet. Give Lorenz a run for his money. C’mon, not even a chuckle? Whatever’s on your mind must be weighing pretty heavy. Y’know sharing is the best way to lighten that burden.”

“How’s Ashe?”

“Y’know,” he makes a vague gesture and then makes a face at her, “Quit smelling it. That offends me, Teach, that you think I wouldn’t disguise my poison.”

Byleth doesn’t answer him. Takes a sip and holds it in her mouth for a long moment before swallowing it. Claude nods as if he approves. 

“Well, actually I don’t know how Ashe is. I’ve never lost a parent before. I imagine he feels the same when you lost your mother.”

He glances at her in curiosity and she shoves at him for being a prying pest. He only chuckles as if he were not, ducking her hands as if it were a game. 

“C’mon, throw me a crumb, Teach,” Claude pouts at her as he grasps her hand, tucking it neatly against the curve of his arm, tugging until she gave way and fell in step beside him. 

“He believes the lord’s dead,” Claude says quietly, the words slipping from the corners of his mouth like a passed note. He still wears that damnable smile, as difficult to grasp as the wind. Byleth’s fingers tighten in his sleeve, “So does the Church. Got a glimpse at the body they recovered and so did Hilda. Those injuries seem convenient … Can’t recognize the face. Can’t even get to most of the body really..”

Byleth denies the shiver of dread up her spine. Her jaw clenching as she thought on a familiar face caved in.

“Only armor and age giving him away. And not even really age," Claude makes a face, "Fire tends to wipe away all truths.”

“Saw how he escaped?”

“Hole in the dungeon wall big enough for a rabbit,” Claude scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Helluva of an escape for a man with broken limbs but seems nothing could stop a knight of Faerghus if he put his mind to it. He might as well have flown.”

Claude looks at her, brazen with understanding but holding his tongue for the moment. Byleth despairs for his future wife - who would have to learn to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.

“I hope you didn’t bring this up with Ashe.”

“Teach,” he simpers like a pretty maiden, “You think too poorly of me.”

She ignores him, slipping out of his touch as she walks away from him. Below them, in the courtyard, she sees Catherine approach Jeralt, wearing storm clouds round her head. Byleth watches them exchange words, her focus on her father’s back, waiting for something … a fight, a battle, a war, her body twitching, knowing she would fall in place to cover him as she was meant to. It’s a disappointment and a relief when Catherine walks away, her expression free of suspicion but no less strained. 

Claude ducks in front of Byleth, light on his heels a he looks her full in the face, green eyes searching as he examines her closely.

“You really don’t know either where he got off to do you?” he asks softly, pure guesswork at first, and then as if he’d seen something on her face he nods. She watches as his mind whirs. He glances at Jeralt. Then Catherine before coming back to her, expression sharp, “Something to worry about?”

“Maybe,” spills from her lips too much like a plead, something raw and desperate in her crying out for aid. 

_Your lot in life is the same as mine._

Refusal burns her chest, something like anger on the heels of that, bright with desperate impotence. 

“Okay,” Claude tells her and he leans too close, always so stubbornly against the idea of personal space, as if he can bleed relief through touch alone. He repeats the word quieter and then adds almost like a challenge, “What do you want us to do about it, Teach?”

* * *

Bylead cannot feel his hand properly. From middle finger to pinky, extending down to his wrists and halfway up his forearm. There is a dullness in his limbs. Empty space in his grasp. In his mind, as if in cruel imitation, Sothis had also fallen silent. His calls for her echo aimlessly. 

The silence and simple absence ate away at the core of him.

“It will heal,” Mercedes assures him.

Her hands are cool as she wraps her hands over Bylead’s fist and he is surprised to see he is digging his nails into his palm. Heal spreads a gentle coolness over his hand, allows him one brief glimpse at sensation again before Heal fades from Mercedes’ fingers and robs him of touch again. 

“But it will be slow and sometimes not wholly,” she says, tracing her fingers over the palm of Bylead’s hand. She offers a gentle smile, “And sometimes that will have to be enough for us.”

Bylead’s pinky twitches as his fist uncurls. A spasm incapable of being controlled. Dread trails one chilling finger down the back of his neck, offers up a cruel crystalline clear glimpse of a future where such a motion drops his dagger and weakens his guard. Sinks a blade into someone’s neck because of it.

“… Thank you, Mercedes.”

She glances behind Bylead, gaze listing to Dedue and they share a moment of tense concern Bylead can palpably feel. 

“Professor, the horses are ready,” Dimitri knocks on the door with care, as if afraid to shatter the wood beneath his hands. He blinks at Bylead for a moment, eyes trailing down Bylead’s front, lingering somewhere in the middle.

Self-conscious, Bylead touches a hand to his bare chest. He trails up his shoulder absently, expecting to find deep pitted marks, stomach swooping in a sick drop when he does not. Dimly, he remembers spellwork over his arms and chest as Dimitri had held him out for the healers. Recalls in morbid detail how the muscles had stitched themselves together, at the growth of each skin layer. At the way, the dead man buried himself in Bylead’s flesh.

Bylead swallows down a shudder of revulsion, fingers twitching against his shoulder, pressing too hard on his clavicle. Iron coats the back of his tongue as pain drops over him like a loosened guillotine. It’d hidden itself like a trap, buried beneath healed skin and unbroken bones, and snaps now. One great swamp blooming from a similar focus. It swims over his mouth and face, sinks greedily into his shoulders and back, tugging at the muscles of his neck as Miklan had done days past. 

He remembers Miklan’s teeth, feels the memory like a physical thing now. He knows well how the canines had curved. Remembers one longer than the other, many of them uneven, and remembers those teeth for how human they were. Sees them in sharp clarity in the open scream when Miklan had passed. Bylead’s fingers drift lower behind him, moving down his back, finding one small pitted line, the shape of them blunt. The marks of a miserable human loss in the mess of that monstrous form. 

The remaining evidence a now-dead man had folded into him, hiding beneath healed flesh. He understood now why some of the mercs would wave off offers of Heals with fierce words and cruel snarls.

_“It just ain’t right. It just ain’t. Seeing some dead bastard mark close up in my skin. Feels like it’s stitching them there.”_

_“Ridiculous,” Byleth had scoffed. _

Bylead curls his right hand into a fist, pinky twitching at the little move. A little pitter of anxiety ripples through him. 

“Please move your hand, Professor,” Dedue guides him away, applying a poultice over the curve of Bylead’s shoulder. 

The numbing tingle of blended herbs displaces the swamp. Shifting the brackish waters out until Bylead could surface again. Mercedes wipes at his brow, taking his other hand, eyes knowing but thankfully saying nothing.

“…You can ride with me, Professor,” Dimitri says and Bylead blinks at them, surprised to see Dimitri and Annette by his bed now. The prince shifts, tips of his ears going pink as he averts his gaze, a hesitant smile on his lips, “We never did have that riding lesson.”

“Good idea,” Dedue says before Bylead can.

Dedue stares back at Bylead placidly and the solemnity of his expression leaves no room for argument. He pries Bylead’s hand away patiently when it drifts back up to the poultice and goes back to unrolling a length of wrapping to apply around Bylead’s shoulder. Dimitri offers Bylead a secretive smile.

“I’m afraid you will have to learn to live with Dedue’s overprotective nature,” Dimitri says in a feigned whisper, “You will never be rid of him now.”

“Are you dissatisfied with me, your Highness? Please do not hesitate to correct me.”

Dimitri makes a face, “Dedue…”

“I think we can stand to stay a while longer,” Annette blurts out. She bites her lip as she looks at Mercedes and then Bylead, “Margrave Gautier seemed happy enough to see us when we brought the lance back.”

She grimaces at the last bit, flashing Dimitri a guiltily embarrassed look, “N-not that we’re ungrateful.” 

“Indeed,” Dimitri says, waving off her apology, his brow furrowing in concern as he looks at Bylead again, “Professor, I think -“

“I need to be back at Garreg Mach,” Bylead says, sharper than he’d like. He shakes his head. Folds away the emotion, “Byleth’s sword … I want a closer look at it.”

Understanding dawns over Annette’s face and the blush on her cheeks darken, something complicated and stricken crossing her face. Her teeth find her bottom lip and she stands for a long moment, looking between Mercedes and Bylead, struggling with something internally before she nods sharply. 

“Right. I’ll go …” she pauses, faltering for an excuse, “Help with the horses.”

And then disappears, her clipped footsteps echoing down the hall in sharp staccato beats that sounded like an accusation. 

Bylead takes a breath, clenching his hand again, flinching when Mercedes loosens his grip. Her fingers trace the lightning crackle up his forearm and then touch his clavicle, applying a light pressure. 

“It will heal in time,” Mercedes reiterates. Her voice goes lower as her gaze flicks to the door Annette had left through. She utters a little sigh, “Things always do.”

* * *

Annette rides with her father at the front. Far away from Mercedes and Bylead and does not look at either of them. She also does not speak to Gilbert, hunched in her saddle as Gilbert flashes her cautious glances but remains equally silent. 

Bylead wonders if that is what healing looks like, feeling, not for the first time like a sheltered fool incapable of navigating the complex ties that came with other people.

On Sylvain’s back, the Lance of Ruin nearly glows in the sunlight, a carcass strapped over Sylvain’s shoulders like a trophy. Even now, Bylead thinks he can see the blood and blackened streaks. Can feel out a dent on its handle where Miklain had clung to it so desperately. 

Sylvain had not gone to the funeral though it was little more than a burial outside Conand Tower. Yet another nameless grave left for the ghosts that wandered there. 

_“Men who will know no rest,” Dedue had said, the last to leave the lone grave, “Such is warfare.”_

They had found Sylvain’s horse gone. In his place, there was only a knight with the message to reconvene on Gautier lands. Even there, Sylvain had actively avoided Bylead, flitting through the grounds with a dogged determination so that Bylead only ever glimpsed him in passing.

“Sylvain.”

“Hm?” 

There is an art to the easy mannerism Sylvain adopts, a richly woven cloak of many patterns.

“You inherited that?” Bylead asks.

“Of course,” blithely spoken, “I’m the only heir and old enough to carry out my ‘righteous duty of quelling these pitiful acts of banditry’ blah blah blah – hiyah!”

He smacks the lance lightly against Ingrid’s back - not even Sylvain were brave enough to hit her rear. In retaliation she punches him so hard he nearly topples from his horse.

“It was a joke!”

“I’m not laughing.”

She glowers at him, her hands white-knuckled around the reins of her own horse when he smiles at her and holds her at a distance with nothing but a grin.

"Slaughter the worthless fool and be done with it," Felix snipes at the two of them but even his gaze is troubled as he looks at Sylvain, “I’ll do it for you if you’d like.”

An unusual response from Felix who rarely joined in on their arguments, preferring his silence and isolation. 

Ingrid’s mouth twitches, “Sylvain…”

“No need to be Frigid Ingrid,” he sing songs, and Bylead watches, quietly impressed as the conversation teeters in his favor.

Ingrid’s mouth closes in one sharp click, fury setting her jaw as her eyes flash. She makes a noise like a snarl and shakes her head, digging her feet into the stirrups. Her horse lunges into the air, great bulk lifting off the ground.

“Professor, I’ll ride up ahead with the Knights,” she says, bowing on her horse as she excuses herself.

Sylvain watches her as she goes and pretends not to, grins smarmily at Felix until the swordsman snorts in disgust and looks away. Playing them all and himself in a skilled theatre. 

“Oooh, your Highness, watch your hands,” Sylvain says to snare their attention on something else entirely and it succeeds in making Dimitri jolt behind Bylead.

Beneath them, the stallion snorts, tossing his head and protesting against the bridle. 

The movement pulls at Bylead’s shoulders, brings with it a sharp sluice of pain that cuts from neck to shoulder blade and forces his hand to go stupid and dull over the reins. At once, Dimitri readjusts his form, an apology on his lips, hovering close to Bylead’s ear. Large hands holding firm where Bylead could not, his thighs tensing against Bylead’s and pressing them closer. 

“Sorry,” Dimitri says in a low panicked whisper as he hurries to correct himself, “I didn’t mean to jostle you, Professor.”

“It’s fine,” Bylead assures him, vaguely reminded of early riding lessons with Jeralt. 

The pang in Bylead’s shoulder strums a lower note, shifting from the sharp flare into a note that resounded longer and came in waves over his skin over and over until it was unclear if it was no longer there or if he were merely growing accustomed to it.

_In time,_ Mercedes promises and he holds her to that, unable to do anything but.

The pulse beats in his hand in a weak flutter, feeling like the fragile gossamer wings of a newborn butterfly, a whisper of a touch he can barely feel as he tries to grasp it. He watches Sylvain stiffen. His horse takes one step back. And then time falls out of Bylead’s hands. 

Sylvain winks at Dimitri and does not look at Bylead, urging his horse forward and forward in steady steps. 

_In time. In time. _

Bylead leans against a broad chest, ignoring the little hiccup of surprise that catches in Dimitri’s throat. He feels Dimitri shift, adjusting his grip, and Bylead closes his eyes as strong arms encircle his waist, curving over him in a secure hold. Bylead tips his head against the hollow of Dimitri’s throat, a weariness he’d pushed off for weeks now coming over him at last and laying him to rest. Dimly, he’s aware of Dedue speaking and Dimitri’s muted reply, volume low out of concern for him and Bylead allows himself to be warmed by that, holding tight as he starts to drift. 

* * *

The moon hangs low over the Knights of Seiros when they, at last, arrive at Garreg Mach. The sleepy town at the Monastery base stir when they pass. Byleth glimpses children peeping out the windows to see noble knights and catch a glimpse of their fairy tales come to life. 

Byleth watches her father wave wearily to a child and the boy quibbles with his sister over who the greeting was for. Their little faces shine with delight as they clap hands over their mouths and whisper at the window, pretending they are still fast asleep in bed and hiding their glee from their parents.

She tries to remember if she and Bylead had ever done something similar and finds nothing in her memories. Only quips exchanged over battlegrounds and her lunging after him in their battle games with a sword in hand. A parent’s voice barks out at the kids and they duck beneath the windowsill, running for their beds.

Byleth looks at Jeralt’s back, remembering him relieving them of watches, barking out sleep orders in a similar manner, and taken much differently. Commands that were followed to the letter. 

“Don’t brood, kid,” he tells her when they unsaddle the horses and they both ignore the way she bristles under his hand.

“I would not if –“

“The hell,” Jeralt breathes and she glances around him to see the Blue Lions coming behind them.

One extra horse and one empty saddle. Byleth steps forward, her hand on her sword, pulse beating beneath her skin until she finds Bylead in Dimitri’s saddle. Her brother is tucked against the prince like a princess won, held like fragile glass.

Her gaze drops to Bylead’s arm.

“Where’d you take him, kid?” Jeralt asks, a strain in his voice as he steps towards them, something barely tempered as he takes Bylead from the prince, rousing him from sleep.

Blearily, Bylead dismounts, exhaustion subtle in his face for those who did not know him. He looks as if he’d come from the forest again, leaning into Jeralt’s embrace eagerly, accepting touch for comfort. 

Dimitri bows his head, “My apologies… we had a mission. It did not go as planned.”

“I’m fine,” Bylead offers because he always is.

He meets Byleth’s eyes and she snares something in his gaze. Something weighted with uncertainty, troubled and concerned. She steps towards him but Sylvain cuts her path.

“Ah, Professor Byleth,” he says and Byleth feels the currents shifts around them, something heavy in the air stirring as he speaks, “Welcome back. Pretty great timing. I’d like to join your class.”

She sees Bylead flicker, his expression going pinched as he touches his shoulder. She reads a history in his movements. One she did not share and feels her stomach swoop at the thought.

The moonlight and torchlight flicker, shadows looming in her periphery, and the great jagged rows of spellwork and lightning on Bylead's arm bleach into bone. 

“I think it would be best for all of us,” Sylvain says with a graceful smile lined in poison, answering her concerns in the way he holds himself and laughs at Ingrid’s sharp _‘Why?’_

Any answer Byleth has crumbles in her throat as another voice calls for her.

“Professors!” Seteth approaches them in a storm of cloaks, radiating panic so strongly Byleth feels it on her skin. His eyes track the students, flitting over each face and she watches something shatter over his expression. The agony in his eyes keen enough to shake them all, “Goddess, she's not here – h-have you seen Flayn?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laptop is on its last leg but i will get these chapters out if it kills me ugh
> 
> also have a continuation for creature!byleth/claude au that ive been trying to get out too - so hopefully can share that soon


	23. White Clouds: A Brief Respite

“No,” Byleth’s answer has no room for softness, and Bylead watches with a grimace as Seteth crumbles.

An oath hisses between Seteth’s lips as he starts to tremble, panic dropping over his face like a hood, the color bleeding out of him as his eyes go glassy.

Blindly, he reaches for someone, fingers grazing the lightening etch of Bylead’s forearm for a half-second before Jeralt steps into his place. 

“What’s this about?” Jeralt asks, his face professionally calm as if this were a simple mission brought to them by people they did not know.

Beneath Seteth’s grip, Jeralt’s arm guard creaks. 

“I’ve not seen her for a moon,” Seteth breathes out, the words unsteady and thin as air, seconds from shattering apart as he recites facts for them as he would prayers, “Not since you left. We had an argument before – some silly thing, I-I don’t even remember what nonsense we were arguing – no matter. She was avoiding me after as she was wont to do. I caught glimpses of her around the monastery. On the pier. The market. In the dining hall and thought nothing of it but then it came to me that’d I’d not spoken to her or seen her face for a fortnight and – and –“

His breath whistles, snaring on a sob as he touches his face. His fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose hard as he breathes shakily, mouth working to summon the words.

“You couldn’t find her when you went looking,” Jeralt supplies and Seteth nods, the corners of his mouth wobbling.  


“It’s been a moon,” Seteth reiterates, “I’d thought - I _hoped _she’d snuck away. She'd always wanted to join a class...I –”

He turns a red-rimmed gaze on the students and they all flinch back, tension thrumming through them muddled by uncertainty. Children not understanding what to do when authority broke down before them. 

“_Goddess_,” Seteth’s next breath tries to be measured but it hitches, wobbling unsteadily like storm waves, a sob bleeding through at the corners as he hides his face again, “Goddess - I don’t know where she could be. She’s not in the monastery. Or in town. The knights have looked everywhere. Rhea has them sent out in search and they have found nothing besides –“

His teeth grind like millstones, so roughly Bylead is surprised they do not shatter beneath the pressure. His hands dig into Jeralt’s arm and Bylead watches in alarm as the metal grinds and starts to yield. 

“Children’s tales,” he snarls, “Nothing but children’s tales of little ones being stolen from their beds.”

Another hiss of breath and Seteth turns away, his gaze blindly dark and terrible to see. Full of messy thoughts and what-ifs. Dead. Kidnapped. Sold. Bylead understood the anxiety of uncertainty, his fingers tapping a worried beat against his chest. 

“Goddess - I do not even know how long she’s really been gone,” self-loathing creeping up around the edges, tearing through his words as he curls in on himself. Something panicked and manic coming over his face and he utters a hideous hyena noise that grinds on Bylead’s heart, “She could be an-anywhere. What a worthless f –“

He hisses, the other hand joining his first on Jeralt’s arm as he shakes apart at the seams, “What a worthless _brother _I am.”

And there are a thousand layers to those simple words. Full of scorn and self-flagellation, something full of agony intent on shredding itself through.

Sympathy bleeds out a thin line in the very core of Bylead. Something sharp as a paper cut and stinging as it bled open and dug into his heart. He grazes Byleth’s wrist worriedly, heart pounding as he remembers the Mausoleum. 

“Okay, okay,” Jeralt soothes, steadying the man. He looks to Byleth, gesturing with his chin before guiding Seteth away and she angles herself to block their path as she were much larger and capable of hiding a broken man.

She was, Bylead realizes, grimacing as the students turn their attention to her in the fallout.

“We can help,” Caspar offers, squaring his shoulders as if he intended to unearth the entire monastery and turn it on its head in his search. He scowls at the knights Seteth had left behind, pointing a finger, “C’mon, what’re you guys standing around for? We gotta –“

“Go to bed,” Byleth says, slapping his hand down, “All of you. Turn in for the night.”

Caspar rounds on her, slack-jawed with disbelief, “Professor, we can’t just do nothing! My instincts tell me she’s in trouble and my instincts are never wrong. C’mon - we gotta get going!”

“Caspar is right, we can help,” Dimitri says. 

“More eyes the better,” Leonie pipes in.

“It is my duty to come to another’s aid if they require –“ Lorenz.

“Maybe she eloped – _ow _**_Ingrid_**_!_” Sylvain.

Behind them, Ashe’s mouth wobble, his eyes wide. Something guilty and stricken crosses his face when he meets Bylead’s eyes and he hurriedly turns away. 

“You won’t find her tonight. And we don’t have anything to go on,” Byleth snaps, “It’s pointless to run around the monastery blind. So, all of you. To bed. Now. We’ll reconvene when we know more.”

She holds her hand up when Claude leans in, a firmer scowl on her face as she waves him off, “Now.”

Bylead watches as they go, the group of them slinking away under her irrefutable command, swallowing grumbles beneath their breath. Ashe does not look at Bylead or any of the Blue Lions as he slips away from the stables like a shade, keeping to the shadows as he goes. 

Something cold bleeds into Bylead’s heart.

“What happened to Lonato?” Bylead whispers when the students are all gone.

Byleth’s expression twists. Something complicated and sour turning her features subtly, emotion too overlaid for Bylead to tweeze apart. Her jaw twitches as she thinks on his question and Bylead tries to remember the last time she’d ever struggled for words.

And then she does something she’d never done in all their years together.

“Executed by the Church.”

She lies to him.

Bylead feels it like a physical thing. Something sharp and niggling in the center of his chest as if he’d been pricked by a needle. Byleth has no major tells, expression smooth as porcelain as the words slip her tongue. There is nothing he should not believe but something tells him otherwise. Years as her sibling. Years as her twin. Instinctive knowledge from a life long shared. 

It does not matter. She’d lied to him somehow and he cannot parse her words. The world sweeps out from beneath his feet and he reaches for her arm, thinking to shake the truth from her but she turns away. 

“We’re going to catch up to father,” Byleth tells him.

As if he had ever needed her commands verbalized for him.

Bylead stares at her back as his sister walks away from him, her shoulders squared as she left him in the dark, her pace brisk as if she meant to outpace and steadily moving forward even when he did not follow. 

* * *

“Spar with me.”

Damn. Ambushed so close to his room. 

Sylvain sighs with his entire body, turning at the cathedral doors. He droops his shoulders overly dramatic and leaves his guard full of holes, dragging up the slacker in him with ease as he looks at his friend. 

“Aw, Felix. It’s late and I’m pretty sure Ingrid gave me a concussion just – whoa–!”

Sylvain ducks the blade whisking over his head, grimacing as the razor edge snatches bits of hair.

“Hey now –“ he yelps at the bite of the blade against his cheek, a cut etching over the cheekbone, the pain sharp and biting, “Aw man, y’know despite the rumors a lady does _not _like men -“

Sylvain grunts, winded as the hilt of Felix’s sword slams into his ribs, nowhere near hard enough to crack but rough enough to lay yet another bruise on his body. As if Conand Tower hadn’t left enough marks and Miklan’s men hadn’t –

He doesn’t _want _to think of Miklan anymore –

Something like fury twists his blood and with a snarl, Sylvain swings the lance off his back, catching the next strike with the handle. It comes up short. 

Felix has gotten faster these days. The training obsessed brute. His sword is too quick to allow time for anything but a clumsy block. 

The lance teeters in Sylvain’s hands, weak and almost ineffective as the force of Felix’s blow drives Sylvain’s knee to the ground for a half-second before he is able to shove Felix off and that is only due to their size difference. 

Like a dancer, Felix drops back into the force of the shove, light on his toes as he sidesteps a returning slash.His nose wrinkles at Sylvain’s block and there is a lifetime of lectures at the clumsiness of Sylvain’s guard. The expression close to a sneer. 

Sylvain swings his lance without holding back, something wicked and cold in his blood as he jabs forward, the tinny fingers of the lance snaring on Felix’s cheek and eating out a cut to match Sylvain’s.

“Training grounds,” Felix says and annoyance prickles in Sylvain’s chest.

“I was thinking bed,” he replies and then wiggles his brows, “Though we can always go there if you –“

“Training grounds.” Felix interrupts, his face smooth as he lets the suggestive flirting slide off his shoulders, amber eyes flinty as he sheathes his sword. He starts walking before Sylvain can reply, “Now.”

“C’mon … it’s my bedtime,” Sylvain whines but follows anyways. 

He barely makes it through the door before Felix is on him again but is ready this time, parrying easily and shoving Felix back. The lance pulses in Sylvain’s grip like a heartbeat and it drags at his Crest, feeling as if it is running greedy fingers over and then under his skin in desperate search.

Gautier’s Crest bleeds out as does Felix’s when they meet again. Blows ringing out and echoing loud across the empty grounds. 

Sylvain really hates sparring with Felix. 

The swordsman understood nothing of training rules, dragged forward by dogged determination and blind fury. Seized, like the boar, he so claimed to despise, by something beyond him. Something dead that should stay buried.

Desperately running after a brother he still struggled to chase after. Glenn’s sword form and Glenn’s sword. Glenn’s lightness and his brutality –

“You’re fighting like Miklan,” Felix’s canines flash as he comes in for another swing, digging into the soft underbelly of a presented vulnerability like a dog bred for pit fighting. His lips twist in a razor smile that cuts too deep, “And you’ve taken his attitude to match.”

A cold finger drifts up Sylvain’s spine. A wretched chill that went bone-deep as realization settles low in his belly.

“I don’t know what you mean when you speak in riddles, Felix,” Sylvain smiles, letting his lance cant to the side, gripping Felix’s shoulder with a hand and putting him bodily to the ground.

“I mean I saw what happened at the tower,” Felix says on a whoosh of breath, twisting his body so it caught enough momentum to kick out Sylvain’s legs from beneath him. 

Felix snakes up, sword on a downstroke as Sylvain scrambles to dodge its reach.

“Though Miklan at least tried for subtlety.”

The growl that tears from Sylvain’s mouth surprises even him. The fury that follows even more so. Something vengeful and heated twists his belly, boiling like the Fire that coats his palm as he reaches out with a flaming hand. Sylvain glimpses surprise in amber eyes for a fleeting second before Felix goes sprawling. A choked grunt echoing over the ground as he lands and twists on the dirt to smother the flames. 

“Dunno what you mean, Felix.”

“Meant when you nearly let the Professor get swallowed up by your bastard of a brother,” seemed the only time Felix could find words was during a fight, his lip turning in a snarl when Sylvain charges for him, his heels digging into the dirt, “Think you can outrun that truth swapping to another class? What next? Off to Galatea?” The bandits are still there. Stragglers now and waiting for a new leader – “

He loses the words when Sylvain’s lance threads his sword, brows knotting in a grimace. He’d not expected the strength of the blow. There’s a tremble to Felix’s hands as he tries to force the lance back but Sylvain is taller and stronger and older. As Miklan had been all those years ago. And he knew the vicious ways to make the difference in size and age a rotted vulnerability. Sylvain bears down, some part of him darkly pleased at the grimace in Felix’s amber eyes and the buckle in his knee as he tries to fight back.

“And you’re nothing like Glenn,” Sylvain says, the words aimed low, something like a smile on his face as he twists his lance, making sure the tinny limbs snare on Felix’s knuckles, sinking in slow and painful, “Aren’t you suppose to be a shield, Felix?”

Felix growls, something rabid in his eyes as his arms start to tremble. 

He loves Glenn so much. Even after death. Stares after Glenn’s back as if he wished himself in his place. Maybe not with the fervency his Highness did but enough to summon a sick curl of jealousy in Sylvain’s belly. Something rotted through and curdled like sour milk. Hatred pooling to the surface in great clumps. 

He remembers the sympathy in the Professor’s eyes and the emotion twists harder. Turns angrier. 

Miklan had been better off dead. Had deserved everything he had gotten.

“Sick of hearing that, Fe?” Sylvain asks and it’s cold and unlike him. His voice like a stranger, taking on the frigid north of Gautier territory. Miklan’s inheritance indeed and Sylvain holds the lance tighter until he feels his own pulse beneath his palm matching the steady drum of the lance as he leans in closer, the lance shaking as it bore towards’s Felix’s jaw. The sword - _Glenn’s _sword buckling and –

Lightning erupts between them. 

With a shout, Sylvain twists apart, snapping his lance down so the sword, caught on the lance’s limbs, rips from Felix’s hands and spins across the training grounds. One great burst of lightning snaps at Sylvain’s arms and face, crackling over his cheeks and jaw like snickering witches.

Thoron rips at Sylvain’s face, snapping on his arm and he nearly drops the lance as lightning crackles over his skin and snaps at his muscles. 

The lightning crackles off Felix’s shoulders, bleeding over his jaw and skin. So sloppy with spellwork - as if he intended to wear it like armor instead of wielding it like a blade. Picking up bad habits from the Professor who breathed magic as if he meant it to be a part of him instead of only a weapon. 

“What’s this really about, Felix?” Sylvain sneers, the words like coal on his tongue, black and poisonously bitter, “Jealous because I asked first? Just because she’s the older twin doesn’t mean she’s a replacement for a dead –”

He catches the Thoron that comes his way with Fire. Lightning beating hungry over his palm as it rallies against the flames and he hurls them both back as if they were the same harmless snowballs they’d thrown across a forest clearing in the dead of winter. Felix slips the spells, charging in, eyes intent and another Fire sparks in Sylvain’s palm, twisting in a ball as he slams it into Felix’s chest, throws him backward. 

Something darkly satisfied whispers in Sylvain’s bones as he watches Felix crumble and before his eyes. The Lance of Ruin warps. Something black bubbling in his vision and then fading in the next blink. 

Madness, it seemed, ran in Faerghus nobility too. He could laugh but any sound he makes now would be hideous and banshee. 

Sylvain shouts as something rigid and metal slams into his head and brings him down. 

Fucking Felix and his blatant disregard for basic training rules. 

Sylvain grunts, head spinning as he swings blind with the lance, feeling something catch on the tip and drives it forward vengefully. Blood splatters over Sylvain’s cheek and he blinks up to see his lance against the edge of Felix’s shoulder, its path redirected by the Aegis Shield, its surface burning red seconds as Felix shoves him to the ground, his voice damning.

“You’re right. She isn’t - so what the hell are you doing?”

Sylvain utters something low and heated, anger beating a war drum in his blood as he kicks Felix off of him. Resentment like an apple rotted through to the core, blacked and brittle beneath his fingers as he slams his lance on the shield hard enough they shriek into the night like banshees.

Vicious anger shaking through him as he stares down his friend, the Lance of Ruin’s tinny limbs clicking, the blade pulsing hungrily as it bears down harder on the shield. Fire blazes at Sylvain’s fingertips as he shoves it at Felix’s face, stopping scant millimeters from the bridge of Felix’s nose and his amber eyes reflect the flames, turned up in a sneer. 

A dare.

Sylvain draws his hand back, feeling himself rise to the challenge. The flames ratchet up his forearm, the heat of them like a second sun, feeding on the oil thick blot of anger and resentment that ate its way through him. Burning brighter and brighter and then –

“Ah~ not so bad for a slacker, huh?” Sylvain asks, swallowing his emotions with a smile, feeling them rally and rail against his chest, more hateful words against his teeth he swallows down. It makes Felix growl, his face crumbling into something matching what Sylvain had tucked away, and like a small man, Sylvain finds deep pleasure in that knowledge.

He sidesteps Felix’s kick, butting aside the heel of Felix’s boot with an arm as he pulls away. 

“I think I’ve had enough for one night,” Sylvain says mildly and that sounds better, more like himself again, “Some of us are not meant for beating ourselves against a dummy until our bones shatter. 

He kicks the shield from Felix’s hands and neither of them watch it skitter across the ground, “Some of us know when to walk away.”

* * *

There’s little else to be gained from Seteth beyond the rumors floating around town. He is half delirious with his grief; his thoughts and words made jumbled by his lack of sleep. They put him to bed, three mercenaries wrestling a priest beneath his sheets and Bylead thinks it would be funny in another life.

“I’ll reach out to my contacts,” Jeralt tells them both, “And I’ll be leaving the monastery tomorrow.”

“Where?” Byleth asks with uncharacteristic heat. There’s something bristling in her, low and angry and it only boils hotter when Jeralt shakes his head.

“Going looking for the girl,” he says, shrugging off her annoyance.

There is something to the exchange that settles uncomfortably in the pit of Bylead’s stomach. Unspoken words and half-truths that make him itch.

_“What happened at Gaspard?” _he cannot speak the words and they offer him no willing explanations.

Seteth puts a hand on Bylead's shoulder and it is too rough and too sudden. A great loom of pain breaking over his back. Byleth takes one look at him and promptly sends him away. As if he were another of her students under her guidance and not someone fully grown who’d stood beside her on battlefield after battlefield. As if he were the child in the forest and had allowed them both to starve instead of taking up a dagger and doing what had to be done. As if he could not adapt without cringing away. 

Someone who’d never taken up blades and magic only to be left running –

“Dimitri.”

The prince startles, nearly dropping a jar Bylead recognizes to be Dedue’s and a kettle of something from the kitchens.

“Professor,” Dimitri bows in greeting, “Welcome back.”

“You’re at my door.”

“Yes,” the prince flushes, holding up the little jar like an offering, “This is from Dedue. A poultice for your injuries.”

He lifts the kettle, “And water. In the event, you need to redress your injuries.” 

“It could have waited until morning. Manuela will take care of the rest,” Bylead says, his hand lifting to touch the lightning on his arm but decided against. He takes the jar from Dimitri instead, fingers grazing Dimitri’s briefly. 

Dimitri’s not wearing his gloves and looking again Bylead realizes the prince is in slacks and a casual shirt. Not quite ready for bed. Ready for the training grounds. Bylead grabs his hand, ignoring the flinch and holding fast.

“You should be heading for bed,” Bylead recites Byleth’s instructions.

“I’m afraid sleep evades me this evening,” Dimitri replies, hunching his shoulders, guilt heating his face as he looks down at their hands. His fingers twitch a little as if he means to pull away but he does not, long fingers curling over Bylead’s cautiously as if holding a baby bird.

“Does that happen often?” Bylead asks though he knows the answer before Dimitri bobs his head in a nod.

“Moreso after battle,” Dimitri sighs, self-deprecation creeping into his voice.

_ “I remember every face that fell before my feet.”_

Miklan floats up at Bylead, that jagged scream and gaping mouth. Sightless eyes turned to an unanswering Goddess. 

Dimitri hunches his shoulders, the guilt on his face pulling towards sadness, “Miklan was not a good man but… it is regrettable.” 

Too light a term. Bylead’s shoulder twinges, feeling Miklan’s teeth in his skin again and all at once the silence of the monastery is too great. Too oppressive. 

He pries for Sothis and finds no comfort, a sick tilt in his stomach as he remembers the silent throne room that last time she’d slept. The weight of it on his shoulders like a boulder. It’d been a long time since he’d been left alone with his thoughts and he does not think he can bear the silence tonight. 

He holds Dimitri’s hand a little tighter and the prince looks at him, blue eyes wide in wonderment. 

“Do you want to come in?”

All at once a rose-red blooms over Dimitri’s face, high on his cheekbones and then down the rest of his face as his eyes go wide as saucers, mouth wavering over words he cannot seem to find. Bylead had meant it as an innocuous question, watching in astonishment as the flush treks down Dimitri’s neck and delved into his shirt. 

_It's_ ... Bylead grasps for the word and decides on, _charming._  


Makes the prince look more approachable.  


If Dimitri had been a stranger at a bar, Bylead is certain his sister would have seized on the flush like a lioness on prey,  made warm and approachable by drink at this time of night. Jeralt would be roaring something. Demanding more drink from a barmaid who would sigh and send someone down to the cellars again for another round as she took his coin. 

Simpler times. 

Longing stirs Bylead hard, an ache shaped by nostalgia wanting the comfort of another being. 

Bylead’s jaw clenches. He squeezes Dimitri’s hand as he makes the offer again, “Ferdinand gave me some tea. Chamomile … it might help you sleep.” 

“I would not _dare_ to impose,” Dimitri says, something wavering in his voice and face as his eyes dart to the door. He grimaces is if there were intruders hidden within, ready to disembowel him, “Sleep may evade me but I should not keep you from your rest.”

He eyes Bylead’s shoulder and arm, his face twisting with too many thoughts. Concern amidst … something else. Longing for comfort as well? Bylead thinks that must be it for Dimitri has not removed his hand from Bylead’s.

“Miklan’s death weighs heavily on me too,” Bylead confesses and the words, once spoken feel too loud and too weighty. A pang of guilt twists his belly, something that sounds too much like Sylvain telling him he has no such right to feel this way. Not when Sylvain had brushed it off so easily – no, so resolutely. Eager to forget a brother who’d brought nothing but grievance. As was his right. It was not Bylead’s right to maintain sympathy for what had to have been a monster in Sylvain’s eyes.

“Makes me think of Byleth and what it’d be like if she were a little crueler and...”

If she lied him and left him behind. 

It’s an unfair comparison but he leans into the bitterness, tasting it like a thick powder on his tongue. His thoughts bubbling again, too many worries prickling at the edge of him and growing too loud. 

“Oh,” Dimitri breathes alarm into that single word. He steps closer, his thumb gentle over the Bylead’s knuckles. He takes a breath and it quivers a little as he looks at Bylead, wide-eyed with concern, “If you believe I can be of assistance then use me as you –“ 

“I think it would help both of us,” Bylead interrupts, “Conversation and another person always helps me sleep better. I’m used to taverns. It’s too quiet here. My thoughts are too loud…I think you can understand that.”

“Of course,” kindly spoken and so warm Byleth feels it down to his toes. 

“So distract me?”

The red on Dimitri’s cheeks darkens but he follows when Bylead tugs. The prince is cautiously silent as Bylead drags him in. Dimitri glances around the small space, standing awkwardly to the corners as Bylead lights a candle, hands clasped to his chest as if afraid of knocking something over. 

Bylead repurposes the kettle for tea and Dimitri pulls a little face, something like a reprimand in his expression that is ultimately left unsaid. Bylead pours out the rest of the water into a little basin, wringing out a towel to wipe away the dirt from his face. 

“There is tea in the cupboard. And sugar, I believe. Or in the pouch under the cabinet.”

He hears Dimitri utter a low affirmative and then the steady clink and soft thump of items being moved about. There is something comforting in those sounds, the audible proof of another being in his space.

Bylead traces his shoulders, applying only the lightest pressure and feeling the same pain swing up to greet him. He marks out a careful territory over his back and chest. Finding the new pitted scars and raised skin but no open marks and gaping wounds. No wounds to be redressed and cared for. Just a thin indentation of a man now dead and a pain that lingered invisible beneath skin. But there was no cure for such things now.

He removes his shirt and the poultice Dedue had applied. Folds one in a neat pile on the table, besides schoolwork half graded from an eternity ago, and discards the other. He wrings the towel out in the basin once more, wiping it over his throat and chest, sighing at the warm clean sensation that settled like a comforter over him.

A quiet choked noise sounds from Dimitri’s side of the room and when Bylead glances over, the prince is hunched over the teapot with one hand over his mouth.

“Don’t burn yourself on the tea,” Bylead chides and then frowns inwardly as he runs the towel over his shoulders wiping at the tacky residuals of the poultice, “You should not be drinking just yet. I believe Ferdinand said it had to steep for five minutes.”

“I - yes, of course,” the reply is small, barely audible over the clatter of Bylead’s daggers as they’re unstrapped from his waist.

Bylead counts them out. There’s a steady comfort to the monotony as he picks apart those that needed cleaning and resharpening and those that did not. Mentally tallying the lost blades, marking different sizes and shapes, and calculating how much it would take to replenish his supply while simultaneously counting seconds for the tea to steep.

The work is a familiar. Easy and second-natured. So deeply ingrained he is startled to find Dimitri at his small table instead of Byleth when he next turns around. 

The prince is looking everywhere but at him, blue eyes fixed firmly on the teapot, a furrow between his brows as if he can will it to steep faster. He perks a little in interest as Bylead sets daggers and cleaning equipment on the table, blue eyes lingering on a whetstone as something deeply pleased settles over his features.

“I’m not sure what nobles talk about during tea time but this helps settle –“

“Your mind,” Dimitri finishes, flashing a little dimpled smile that quickly vanishes when he looks at Bylead. He makes a little face and Bylead realizes belatedly that this was no ragged tavern with barrels with for chairs and hay for beds. 

“Sorry, I did not think you would mind. I’ll find a shirt,” Bylead says, touching his chest half self-conscious. The mercenaries had little to say about propriety, blind drunk or not. They had no qualms about tossing off their shirts which carried dust and sometimes rain from long journeys at a safe tavern or inn, so long as their blades were well within reach and lookouts were in place.

“No, I don’t. It’s doesn’t bother me. You should be comfortable in your own room,” Dimitri says quickly, the red on his cheeks going darker as he bites his lip. He makes an effort to look Bylead square in the face, expression so stern and resolute Bylead nearly laughs. Dimitri manages a few seconds of full eye contact before he looks back on the daggers again.

“Captain Jeralt and I cleaned these last time. He says the mindless work helps and indeed it does. Ah - I recognize this one - Kingdom-made.”

Bylead nods, settling in across from Dimitri, their legs bumping. The table is too small and too short for them to avoid touching no matter how Dimitri squirms. Eventually, he relents, knee bumping cautiously against Bylead as they passed oil and damp cloths between each other. The touch lends a warmer cozier atmosphere that makes Bylead settle. Not quite like the press of mercenaries on all sides but close enough for now. 

“Byleth bought it when we last visited Fhirdiad. She likes Kingdom blades for the simplicity,” Bylead toys with one of them, lets it flit through his fingers, the razor edge of the blade light as fireflies over his knuckles. Dimitri’s gaze on him is heated, intent, on his fingers. Bylead passes the blade over, “I like the weight and feel of them. The grip design is plain but more practical.”

“Indeed,” the prince says, toying with the dagger clumsily in his own hands for a moment before ultimately giving it up as a loss. He chuckles, “Delicate work has always escaped me.”

They fall into easy conversation about weapons and blades, parsing through Bylead’s many daggers together. Dimitri is efficient, movements well-practiced as he cleans the blades. Diligent and careful with them all as if they were all precious things crafted by Zoltan. 

It’s simple and mindless and yet so familiar Bylead can practically smell the smoke of a bar. Hear the lilting tones of Byleth’s dangerous flirtation whenever there was a pretty maid or man that caught her attention. Feel Jeralt against his back, broad-shouldered and too affectionate with drink, brandy on his breath as he slung an arm over Bylead’s shoulders as he roared with laughter.

It’s easy to lean into the simple warmth, to put Miklan and Byleth and the angry jumbled mess of problems that came with them from his mind. To focus his mind on only the moment now when he only had to make sure his daggers were clean and the teacups were never empty. To exist in the free easy space, listening to the gentle rumble of Dimitri’s voice and let it wash over him.

“I think you should turn in,” Bylead tells him quietly when their cups are empty and all the daggers are cleaned and neatly laid out. 

A gentle exhaustion settles over his shoulders shrouded in comfort. He can see the same soft ease in Dimitri, noting the sleepy crook of his mouth as the prince rises. Bylead is pleased to see it. An odd impulse stirs in his blood, twitching his fingers; for a bright moment, he is struck by a sudden urge to touch the corners of Dimitri's mouth. Trace the lax line of Dimitri’s jaw.

He reaches for the door instead, opening it for the prince. 

The move puts him close enough he can smell the tea on Dimitri’s breath, see the trace flecks of undissolved sugar on his lip. Bylead squeezes Dimitri’s shoulder and then drags him in for a hug - a quick one-armed thing that mercenaries threw around before they split apart for the night. A low whoosh of breath burns the tips of Bylead’s ears and he feels the prince scramble at his chest and arms, frantically uncertain of where to keep his hands. Cautious enough to avoid the places that drew pain. It’s a kind gesture and Bylead leans into a little too eagerly. 

“Goodnight,” Bylead tells him, meeting wide blue eyes, “And thank you. This was …”

He shakes his head, offering a little smile as sincere as he can, “Thank you, Dimitri.”

“Anything you need,” the prince manages, his voice strangled in his throat as he steps away slowly, reluctantly, “I - I mean, think nothing of it. Good night, Professor.”

Bylead closes the door on that, dropping heavily into his own bed. The throne room creeping up around the corners and he holds tight to that bit of warmth, feeling full and sated, chamomile mild and sweet on his tongue as he steps away from this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bylead casually adding to dima's spank bank
> 
> sylvix won’t be a thing in this story - that was just sylvain being sylvain 
> 
> anyways more golden deer next round and black eagles
> 
> also might have a claudeth ABO fic or dimileth savior king oneshot coming up - you guys will get one of those or the next chapter next lolol ( ; o ; i need these plot bunnies to chill)


	24. White Clouds: Dealing in the Dark

The world had few constants. The eyes of cowards. The narcissism of royalty. And a tavern bar on borderlands. 

Jeralt stoops as he enters, hunches his shoulders to fit through the doorframe, at once at ease as music swells around him. 

Life and color paint the tavern interiors in a way Garreg Mach never could, no matter how many stained glass windows they commissioned. The song tonight is something Leicester born but the tune and lyrics are being twisted by two Kingdom mercenaries who laugh off a Leicester merchant’s shouted criticism. 

Fodlan tongue slips into country drawls, vowels and consonants easing around the edges and growing loose, spoken by people born outside of larger towns. Jeralt walks past a group of five merchants puzzling over an Almyran board game, catches three different dialects thrown between them, and smirks as one of them lies openly and shamelessly to the Empire merchant they were teaching the game to. Smirks wider when she spits back a snarl about the man’s mother in their tongue.

There are locals to the corners, muttering news over tall pints. Indignant whispers about the gutted Gaspard estate, grumbling about taxes and punishments now that the Church had taken over. People with enough work on their fields to distant themselves from Lonato’s truth who were now more concerned about the uncertain changes noble warfare wrought.

Jeralt avoids them, marking out a slow casual path towards the bar as if he were an old regular. There are a few eyes, drawn by his stature, but their gaze drops off his face quick enough, dismissing him as another simple patron. He orders himself two tankards, something from the top shelf, taking deep pleasure in throwing Church coin into vice and ale, and carves out a table for himself in the corners. 

Waiting.

He spies his contact the moment they step in. 

Noble by the looks of it but not unaccustomed to such scenes. They move, silky and practiced, slipping through the crowds with ease, undeterred by the raucous chaos of the tavern. Jeralt watches as they sidestep a shouting patron and a child feeding their dinner to the floor, their gaze flittering over the many people before coming up short. To their credit, they don’t flinch as they meet Jeralt’s gaze.

Jeralt recognizes the face beneath the hood, grinning broadly as he waves Lord Arundel closer.

“Gotta say, I didn’t expect you, but thinking on it, ’s not a huge surprise,” Jeralt says, only half a lie, taking a swig of his tankard and pushing the other towards the lord in offering. He glances up, “Donations to the Church have dried up in recent times.”

“Merely due to the financial situation in my territory, I can assure you it has nothing to do with my dedication to the Church,” Lord Arundel says, sliding into the chair, "To what do I owe this pleasure?”

He’s subtle with his surprise.

Arundel pushes the offered tankard aside with a handkerchief as if he could not bear to touch it. Empire nobles were the worst. At least those in the Kingdom weren’t such petty snobs.

Arundel maintains a bland smile, a noble’s smile, stitched together and tight at the edges and does not look away until Jeralt takes a sip. Jeralt catches him scanning the crowds, breathing sharply through his nose as if he could sniff out his missing contact.

“You won’t find him here,” Jeralt says and Arundel stiffens just the barest fraction, “Haven’t you heard the news? Gaspard’s lord is dead. Burned and executed trying to escape the Church.”

“Ah, yes, the rebellion. I’d thought it only gossip,” Arundel says, “How unfortunate. Lord Lonato had always been pious. I wonder what could have turned him. Regardless - I suppose this means I will have to discuss trade with his replacement. I do hope they are as lenient as Lord Lonato was but … well, that is a matter for the Church and Kingdom.”

“Sit down.”

Arundel’s face twitches. The lines of his mouth and eyes going tight.

“I do not take orders from you, Sir Jeralt,” he says.

“I think you might,” Jeralt leans back, propping up his legs, “Either that or from Rhea. And between the two of us, I’d say I’m a little easier to handle. And you have no more puppets on this side with Lonato gone.” 

Something glints in Arundel’s eyes, low and dangerous. He slides into the chair smoothly, posture lax and unassuming, presenting the figure of a noncombatant but Jeralt can smell the stink of magic on him.

“Pardon?” Arundel says coldly, “Surely you are not insinuating what I think you are. The Church knows better than to sling worthless accusations without evidence, Sir Jeralt.”

“Evidence huh?” Jeralt hums, “Mmm, all I’ve got is an old man’s story. Little folktale told to the kiddies at night when they’re complaining about bedtime. It’s about a little puppet. Some woodsman wanted a kid. So he carved it outta branch and made a little wish to the stars. Guess he was pious enough because the Goddess blessed the thing with life. Gave it freedom to romp around and it did. But it turned out nothing like the sweet little kid, the woodsman wanted. Had a penchant for mischief and a big mouth. He got taken in by some conmen and gave away his dear ol’ dad’s few secrets. They swept the little shop for gold and then burned it to the ground. That’s the trouble with keeping puppets alive too long, never know what they might sing about.”

Arundel does not move. His face like glass and it is so like facing down Rhea, Jeralt could laugh. Puppetmasters of Fodlan had such remarkable similarities.

“A charming tale,” Arundel says in a voice that says it’s anything but, “But it has little to do with me.”

Jeralt could roll his eyes.

The nobles made games of even battle and warfare. 

Exhausting. 

He sets down a stack of papers with Arundel’s stamp and the man’s face flickers. Something serpentine and hideous lurking beneath his placid calm.

“Kingdom nobles don’t trust easily,” Jeralt says, “And they have more resources than you’d think. Especially those who hold borderlands like these. Seems financial times didn’t keep your money outta the Western Church. Did you know they were in Gaspard too? Guess that ties you a little closer to the rebellion you claim to know nothing about.”

“The Western Church was a great ally in our times of trouble,” Arundel says, “They housed many who were affected by famine and disease and we share a border. It seems logical for me to provide what little I can give to neighbors within my sight. I did not expect such pettiness from Lady Rhea. If this alone is the evidence of any conspiracy, then I must admit, the rumors of your capabilities are perhaps too generous.”

“Save the name-calling. I know you nobles hate when common folk open their mouths, but I’m not done,” Jeralt holds up a hand, sliding over unrefined steel across the table, “We’ve tracked where the money went and it wasn’t to your poor and injured. Seems they’ve been buying up a huge sum of Wootz steel and shuffling it over Fodlan’s Throat. But it’s not staying in the Church, is it? Somehow, they’ve been moving into Gaspard, snuck into the trade deals for weaponry in the months leading up to his rebellion. Bits and pieces here and there, nothing enough to notice. Not when his attention was caught on bigger things and you took them away quickly enough. A chunk of unrefined junk doesn’t do much for a rebellion that needs to catch fire quickly, but you still paid a pretty penny for the bunch. Enough for him to keep buying through the Western Church. Enough to fund his rebellion. Now, what was it you said you were discussing with Lord Lonato. Trade over your respective borders? Yeah, I sure hope his replacements a helluva lot more lenient than Lonato was on your treasury.”

Arundel’s face closes in on itself as if he’d tasted something sour and foul. A storm brewing on the surface as he rolls over options. Jeralt puts his foot down, shifts his stance as he leans in. He glimpses two people by the tavern doors. A figures, stupidly obvious and unused to covert missions. Or they simply did not care about being caught. He has no doubt it’s the latter and watches out of his periphery, a hand on his lance until three of his mercenaries lead them away.

“You picked a puppet smarter than you’d expected. Next time try someone younger. Who hasn’t lived through the political nonsense and wars you nobles like to sling around over common folk,” Jeralt says and then leans back, affecting a sigh, “Well, who am I to tell you how to do your job. Lonato had the information but he couldn’t figure out what you were getting at. Assumed it was warfare and you were forging swords. Chasing after Zoltan’s technique. Or maybe even catapults if you can figure out the weight issue.”

He crooks a smile, “I guess, if you make those golems of yours big enough they could serve as such.”

Something startled and then hateful turns Arundel’s expression. 

“Golems,” he repeats and Jeralt smells magic in the air. 

“Yep,” Jeralt says, waving a hand, “I’m guessing, with the amount you’ve got stored up, you could throw together enough for a first siege. Or something bigger. If you could get your hands on the crystals you needed.”

A guess but something nearly on the nose judging from the near inaudible change in Arundel’s breathing.

“Bitch to find aren’t they? Or just harder to hoard under Rhea’s gaze. I see you’ve been trying for them but no one’s selling. Not by the bucketful like you need,” Jeralt says, affecting a measure of sympathy, “It’d be a helluva time for her to turn your way now while you’re halfway through your preparations.”

Arundel’s smell changes. The magic in the noble pitching lower. More metallic. Bitter. Like licking an old dagger that was on the edge of rusting.

“Put your Warp away,” Jeralt snarls at him, “We both know there’s nowhere to run once she’s got your scent.”

He nods at the door, “My guys better not wind up dead by the way. No longer a knight but I get pissy when my squires are roughed up.”

“What do you want?” not a question. A statement torn with impatience and a thinly veiled threat. Arundel’s face twitches as if he was stitching the expression into his skin. 

“I want in,” Jeralt says and then tilts his head, “And I want the girl back.”

Shock. Disbelief. And then cold delight.

It flickers too hot and too bright in Arundel’s dark eyes, glittering as his hand twitches. Greed lighting his face like an alley dog coming across a chunk of meat.

“The girl?”

“If we’re going to be working together, keep your lies to yourself,” Jeralt says, “I found the assassination plot you stuck on Lonato. Looked like it was cobbled together by the kids at the academy on their seminar days. And that’s all it is, just a little distraction to keep Rhea’s attention for some time while you did what you needed to. Turns out you didn’t need that distraction after all. Not when we stalled at Gaspard and half the monastery left for some … pointless mission.”

He fights back the grimace at ‘pointless’, thinking on the worn look Bylead had given him days ago. It pulls up the memory of Byleth, the growl in her voice and the fight in her as she’d questioned him and tried to trap him before he left the monastery.

He pulls out a little vial from his shirtfront, the red inside dragging long fingers over the glass as it slid about. Arundel’s nostrils flare, his eyes on it like a serpent.

“So you made your way in, didn’t you? Snatched the kid because she was close to the priest? Or because you were looking for something like this?” Jeralt asks.

Arundel’s hand drifts over Jeralt’s knuckles. The sensation vile as it slithers over Jeralt’s skin.

“Whose?”

“Seiros’,” Jeralt confirms, watching keenly as the man’s face _shifts_, something other and hungry beneath the human guise. Jeralt didn’t have all the details but there was something about the face that differed from Rhea’s yet mirrored her perfectly. Something greedy and desperate, screaming to be let loose.

“Why, Sir Jeralt, it seems you are aware of more than you let on,”

Jeralt closes his hand over the vial, starting to withdraw, “We have a deal or not?”

Arundel smiles. The smell of magic grows heavier. Burnt metal singeing the air. 

Jeralt is back to the night the monastery had burned. Remembers the absent way the stable hand had knocked into the torchlight, the way the flames had teetered, dancing off the walls as Jeralt nudges the base of the stand enough to guide it onto hay. Remembers the smoke as it curled up onto his armor, drawn to the metal, heat licking his cheeks as the fire caught slow and then furious beneath the twins’ room. Grabbing for purchase with desperate greed. 

Arundel reaches out, his touch burning sickly.

And Jeralt sets a second fire to Garreg Mach. 

What was one more for his twins? 

He hands over the vial, feeling nothing.

* * *

“Buy you a drink?” Jeralt asks later when Arundel is long gone, sliding in a booth with a Kingdom noble, someone hunched low in his seat over a tankard of his own. 

A wizen face regards him with narrow-eyed scrutiny, hands folded over a broken arm, and after a long moment, shuffles slowly aside to allow Jeralt room to slide in. The man grumbles beneath his breath as Jeralt’s mercenaries join their table.

“Wonderful, you’re alive,” Jeralt greets them and then shouts above the din and ruckus to order another round of drink, grinning wide as he drowns his dread with ale, ignoring the silent considering look his new drinking partner was giving him.

Thinking only of two silent twins cradled close to his chest as he fled in the night.

* * *

“Ah, your Highness,” Sylvain is surprised to find Dimitri on the training grounds. His childhood friend had been making a point to avoid him. Then again his Highness always had been dense when it came to relationships. 

Dimitri gives Sylvain a little nod of acknowledgment, without pity, and it’s acceptable enough Sylvain doesn’t bristle. But, it didn’t mean he didn’t feel the urge to tease a little. 

He gives Dimitri a slow once over, flashing a wicked smile, “Had a late few nights? I see you’ve learned to take that training ground aggression and put it to better use.”

“What do you mean?” 

Bless his heart. So innocent.

Sylvain makes a circle with his fist, jerking his hand up and down, and sure enough a ruddy rose blooms on Dimitri’s face, creeping into his hairline as he staggers. The lance in Dimitri’s hands creaks. 

“So who’s the lucky lady?” Sylvain asks, throwing an arm around his friend, inwardly noting the difference in height. Dimitri really had grown like a weed. Just yesterday, he was still being mistaken for a young maiden, “Whoever they are, they’re really drawing out the animal in you. I’ve never heard such a wild time.”

“No one!” Dimitri says, shoving at his arm, his cheeks aflame. There’s sheer panic in his eyes, something bright and guilty, “You have heard nothing. You couldn’t possibly have heard anything. I ma –“

Wow. Sylvain had been kidding and he sees the moment Dimitri realizes, the prince’s face going even redder.

“Oh?! What’s this?” Sylvain wipes at a fake tear, “His Highness is growing up. Does Dedue know? Does he approve? Most importantly, who could it possibly be to have ensnared your Highness’ attention?”

“No - there isn’t – No one. Nothing. There is nothing to know.”

“Aw, you can’t lie to me,” Sylvain says, poking at Dimitri’s cheeks, “Not with that face. You know it’s okay to feel such a way. When a young man need to relieve himself – ow, _ow!_”

Blaiddyd’s crest was a damn pain literally.

“You have heard nothing,” Dimitri growls and Sylvain holds his hands up. He’d forgotten what his Highness was like when angry, fondly recalling parts of his childhood bedroom wall still marked by Dimitri’s tiny fists after one of his tantrums. 

“Right, right,” Sylvain mock buttons his mouth shut, wincing when Dimitri lets go of his arm. 

Dimitri fixes him with a baleful look before going back to the training dummy, his hits turning rougher, stiff and uncomfortable, slipping into brute strength instead of technique as he’d been practicing earlier.

“I apologize,” Dimitri says after a long moment, nodding his head jerkily at Sylvain’s arm, something panged and guilty in his expression.

“But who is is it?” Sylvain asks, always eager to take advantage of an acquiescence, grinning easily when Dimitri glares at him, continuing when Dimitri does not respond, “Someone I know? The kitchen girl with the -“

He marks out an ample bosom in front of his own chest, a gesture Dimitri resolutely ignores.

“The redhead in the marketplace? The squire girl that Ingrid’s always chatting up? That oldest orphan you’re always talking to. ‘Ah ~ your Highness, you’ve saved me from a life of hardship and loneliness’,” he pitches his voice higher on the last line before going lower, “‘Ah, but it is you who has seen through my princely’ – okay~!”

Sylvain ducks the lance coming for his head.

“If you are here on the training grounds, it must mean you are looking to be knocked about a little,” Dimitri growls, “Join me won’t you?”

“With that look in your eyes? No way. A knock from you would knock the life right outta me,” Sylvain squirms away, holding both his hands up in surrender, “And besides, I’m only here because the voluptuous young Professor said the Golden Deer are holding class here. And I can never turn down a woman. Wait! It isn’t the Professor isit – hnk!”

His knees go out from beneath him and Dimitri watches bug-eyed, following Sylvain’s teetering, clumsy fall. 

“That’s a point off,” Byleth says, the scabbard of her sword digging into Sylvain's hip, “Be on your guard. Always.”

By her side, the Professor blinks at him and it is startling to see them together. Those same two faces hovering over him. Besides his sister, Bylead is nearly readable. His eyes and mouth turned in that same minuscule grimace each time he looks at Sylvain that rubs too raw. 

“Professor - _Professors_,” Sylvain greets with a little grin and his smile must be off because Byleth’s entire body goes rigid, angling ever so slightly to step in front of her brother.

“Professor,” Dimitri marks out a respectful bow, his eyes shining as he greets them, a little smile etching his lips that is surprisingly genuine, full of that same eager puppy sincerity that’d followed him as a child. At complete odds with the growls and threats he’d thrown at Sylvain mere seconds ago.

Huh.

“You’re going to be late for class,” Bylead tells him and Dimitri’s face twitches a little before he ducks his head, chastened.

“Hanneman has instructions for the Blue Lions regarding Flayn’s disappearance,” Byleth adds, “Rhea wants you to focus your attention within the monastery. Lend the knights your aid.”

“Within?” Dimitri asks dubiously, his gaze flicking to the Bylead in question.

“Everything is impenetrable only once. Seems the Mausoleum incident has shaken her confidence,” Edelgard says as she approaches with the Black Eagles in tow. Behind them is the Golden Deer, Claude nowhere in sight, “Manuela will be scouring the town with Shamir and Catherine. Seems she has contacts of her own.”

“And us?” Sylvain angles the question at Byleth, aware it is childish of him to enjoy the little near-invisible shift in Bylead’s posture. 

“Looking after their students for now,” Byleth says, folding her arms, and then turns to Dimitri, “Leave.”

“Ah - yes, Professor, shall we?” Dimitri asks, offering an arm, fluttering a little when he realizes how that’d look and pulling it away.

Huh.

“Hanneman’s waiting for you,” Bylead shakes his head and the same old sad puppy look pulls at Dimitri’s face, disappointment barely smothered beneath princely calm.

Huuh.

Sylvain’s not the only one to catch it. The Imperial princess blinks, momentarily stunned before something wondering and amused spreads over her face. 

“With the resources pulled thinned, Bylead’s helping us out,” Byleth explains.

Ah. Right.

Hanneman was still their official teacher. The Professor was … was –

“Pair up,” Bylead tells the Golden Deer as he starts to rattle off names and weapons, “Sylvain –“

“Pardon?” Lindhardt asks, a little bead of annoyance in his voice, tugging at Byleth’s coat sleeves in a manner that can only be described as petulant, “Since when has Sylvain been a part of the Golden Deer?”

“Three days ago,” Byleth replies and Lindhardt makes a face. 

“Professor,” a reprimand in a single word. 

“Hush,” Edelgard chides. 

“Hang on, isn’t that favoritism?” Caspar. 

“My, such big words - did it hurt you to speak them?” Hubert.

“Jeez, Hubie would it hurt you to dull that tongue of yours?” Dorothea.

“Aw, ‘Hubie’. Play nice. That’s the whole point of these interclass lessons after all,” Hilda.

“Pfft - ‘Hubie’,” Leonie.

“I would thank you all not to misappropriate my name.”

“Sylvain,” Byleth catches his attention again, ignoring the squabbling, leaving it to Bylead to sort out the rest of the lessons as she steps forward. There is a gleam in her eyes as she advances, the sword pulling from her scabbard with a shrill screech much like a rattlesnake’s warning, “You’ll be pairing up with me”

* * *

Byleth gains … a pest.

“Heya, Professor, you’re looking lovely as ever today. A pretty lady like yourself shouldn’t be left alone with such a heavy burden,” Sylvain waggles his eyebrows at her, “Shall I lighten your load?”

“Sure,” she shoves her armload into Sylvain’s arms, ignoring the way his knees buckle beneath the training weights and swords. She drops coins in his hands loosely enough he has to scramble to catch, “Swords go to the blacksmith. The weights to the training grounds. Class is in the forest today.”

* * *

A pest that does not let up.

“Why Professor, fancy meeting you here. It almost...feels like fate. Maybe we should have some tea. Get to know each other better?”

“Thanks,” Byleth says, plucking the tea leaves from his hand, turning to her brother, “Bylead, tea time.”

* * *

Who is too smart for his own good.

“Oh, Professor, what would Lady Rhea say if you eloped with the house leader. The sheer _scandal_ –” Sylvain steps from the shadows. Thankfully he’s at least shed his school uniform. He throws his arms up, shifting his weight as he makes a show of looking about the alley, “Are your trysts always so obvious?” 

“Only to fleas who won’t stop attaching themselves to my skin,” Byleth mutters and Sylvain grips his chest.

“My _Lady_,” he gasps, a smile leaking through the wide-eyed shock he’d slapped like opera paint over his face.

“Well now that you know, run along will you?” Claude asks, batting his lashes as he grabs for one of Byleth’s arms, falling into the role with _too _much eagerness –

He presses her hand against his chest, wiggling a little as he edges close, a delighted smile on his lips as he sets his head on her shoulder. 

“Oh, and here I thought we had a connection. _Teach_ –“ 

Claude’s face flickers at that. A there and gone flash where his face freezes for a half second before going lax and easy again.

“Has been so welcoming since I’ve joined the class. All that attention. All the extra training. It’s enough to make a man feel special,” Sylvain makes a show of dabbing his face with a handkerchief. 

Maybe she could sell them both to an opera house. Or a brothel. 

“Why, Teach,” any closer and Claude would be physically on top of her, “And here I thought –“

Bylth fits her palm against Claude and Sylvain’s face, gripping their jaw as she starts to drag both of them along the alleyway. The two of them squawk like chickens, scrambling at her arms, muffling shouts beneath her hand as they flail. She only squeezes harder when she feels them both lick the palm of her hand before at last they manage to disarm her, managing some semblance of teamwork as they twist from her grip. 

“Ow, ow, ow,” Sylvain mutters, massaging his jaw, “Jeez, is this how the Professor grew up? I thought Miklan was a brute.”

Going on Bylead’s debrief, Byleth understands enough to hear the bait in Sylvain’s words. Understands why Bylead’s been holding on to that sad hangdog expression since he’d returned. Kindhearted fool.

“Keep your mouth shut next time,” she says, ignoring him as she walks ahead.

Sylvain manages for about ten steps before he has an arm around her shoulder, leaning in close, “So what’s this about? Looking for a little inn to ‘train’ in? Need any suggestions? I know a place that’s very discrete ~”

“No need for that,” Claude winks as he leans on her other shoulder, lifting Sylvain’s arm up and away, “Teach and I are well familiar. Isn’t it about time you got back though? Three’s a crowd, y’know.”

Claude and Sylvain smile at one another and it is like being stung by wasps.

“The rumors Seteth spoke about refer to a knight cast as Death,” Byleth says as they walk through the streets, ignoring the subtle-not-subtle way they pry and poke at one another. She is lightly jostled as they trade pinches and razor smiles, “Claude’s been doing reconnaissance.”

In her periphery, Claude grins, self-important and smug.

“We’re going to confirm he’s right.”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow, smirking back, questioning and full of derision.

The wasps growing louder around her.

“If you could be more subtle,” Byleth snaps at the two of them. 

“Anything for a lovely lady like yourself,” Sylvain simpers.

“Your wish, my command.”

Byleth smothers her aggravation beneath her boot as she strides into a bar with the two in tow. She orders for herself and leaves them to snatch up their own spots, turning a blind eye as Sylvain goes after a woman and Claude joins a crowd of men leaning over a tabletop game. 

Byleth settles in her seat, watching them in reflections. She would have brought Hilda but the little brat had been nowhere to be found. 

Instead, she watches Sylvain take Hilda’s place, flitting like a bee in a garden, never stalling on one person for too long, basking in the same confidence Hilda carried about. Silver-tongued and irritatingly loveable to those they threw shameless smiles at. It’s the same with Claude. He casts charm too widely, sprawling in a net until he has a crowd, casting himself as entertainer as he smiles winningly at them. 

If Bylead were here, she would be in the crowd with them as he kept watch beside Jeralt. 

Byleth’s teeth come down a little too hard on the tines of her fork and she orders another drink, something vile from the Kingdom that burns like acid down her throat. 

She can nearly feel the lightning etch that’d run up and down Bylead’s arm herself. The white streaks refusing to fade under Manuela’s treatment. Thankfully, his twitch had stopped but that could’ve led to a dangerous mistake. What on earth had he been thinking?

Byleth takes a gulp of her drink, drowning the anxiety crawling in her throat and the memory of Bylead’s frown when she’d told him as much. He’s been acting oddly lately and she doesn’t think it’s just because of her sword. 

_ “Miklan was simply not worthy of holding the Lance,” Rhea says, her hands folded together, eyes sliding shut in quiet prayer. There is no trace of sorrow on her face when she looks at Byleth, her face lighting up with a kind smile, “You should have no fear. You were chosen by the Sword of the Creator and found worthy. I ask that you allow yourself to draw from its power. Especially at this time.”_

_ Byleth feels her brother crowd in close. His hand tapping her wrist as he frowns at her. Something petulant and irritated in his expression._

_“What?” she asks when they leave Rhea’s chambers, reading the annoyance in the faint shadows by Bylead’s mouth._

_ “I don’t think you should continue to use … that thing. It feels wrong. Like the Lance of Ruin.”_

_ “When it stabbed you? I would be concerned if being stabbed felt right.”_

_ “Byleth,” a tone she hadn’t heard in a long time. Something from their younger days when she’s pushed on the last of his never-ending patience or ran out of his sight during a fight._

_ “I won’t use it any more than I have to. Like you with your magic.”_

He’d given her an irritated look and then closed his mouth shut with a click, resolutely refusing to speak on the subject anymore. Always so uncomfortable with facing disagreements head-on. He’d only turned away with that same stubborn frown that preceded rash decisions. Like him vanishing from their camp overnight to prove he could indeed slay a rabbit as well. Or running off on a mission alone when all he had to do was stay in the monastery. 

Perhaps she should have brought him instead of sending him to join Hanneman's investigations.

Her fork clinks a little too loud on her plate, missing the bit of chicken and the sound draws her back from her thoughts. 

Idiotic. 

She was being distracted by moronic overprotective while on–

Byleth spies him.

Jeritza.

He moves too openly to not be aware of her gaze. Everything about his form obvious and unsubtle as he slips into the bar and then out, slow enough she always has him in her sights.

At a glance, Claude and Sylvain have not noticed, preoccupied with a crowd they’d drawn, distracted by bar patrons and losing their control. Swarmed by those older who delighted in a little fun for themselves. 

A woman leans into Sylvain, her bosom against his arm as she breathes something in his ear. He turns to her with a matching smile, more reflexive than anything else, sharp at the corners as he manages to talk her arm off his shoulder. On the other side, Claude was charming a man and woman, sneaking his drink into other cups as they offer him more.

They were managing. 

Shaky around the edges but serviceable.

Byleth weighs her options and then slips through the crowd.

At worst the two would lose some coin and it wasn’t as if they didn’t have plenty to spare. She weaves in and out of the crowd, keeps herself behind larger people and those with similar shapes, her steps silent as she makes her way out the bar onto cobblestone.

As expected, Jeritza is lingering nearby, starting to walk only when she appears. His form and posture are loose and he carries only a sword at his side and not the enormous weapon he’d held at Gaspard. Jeritza from the Mausoleum instead of the Death Knight from Gaspard. 

He turns down an alley and she follows. Matches him step for step and lets him lead her underground.

It’s a slum bar. Made for those too caught up in vice for work. Full of mercenaries willing to be paid for seedier services and simple folk in the town who were only just too poor for other places.

She meets the eyes of a few mercenaries. Some recognizing her well enough to look away and ultimately no one stops her as she orders a tankard and crosses the room to where Jeritza sat with his back to her. He regards her blandly as she sits. 

In front of him is a sweet. Or an attempt at one given the bar they were in. Some pastry Mercedes or Annette could be found sharing. 

Well, maybe not these days. 

“Professor,” he greets her with that same stilted speech pattern. He approaches his sweet gravely as it required tactical focus, “You are looking well. I am glad. I would be disappointed if you were felled in Gaspard.”

“You got pretty close.”

“Incorrect. On multiple points. I believe we were arriving on a draw. Had we not been interrupted,” he makes a derisive face and it pulls oddly on him as if he were unaccustomed to emoting, “It would have, ultimately, been unsatisfying. You were crippled by compassion. Unbecoming for the Ashen Demon. Do not do it again.”

“I don’t keep promises to people who’ve gouged out a chunk of me.”

“Yet you will follow them blindly into what may possibly be a trap.”

“Is that what this is?” 

“No. When we next battle, it will be a true battle. Creator and Death,” he nods, “And Death will win. As it always does.”

Byleth drops her hand to her sword and Jeritza follows the movement, something like eagerness in his eyes before he settles himself.

Jeritza looks down at his treat and then at the shared space between them, displeasure deepening his voice, “This … this is no battle.”

Jeritza breaks a piece of his pastry, movements slow and measured and his guard never dropping. His movements stir something familiar in Byleth’s chest, some sense of memory, and with no small amount of surprise she realizes it’s Bylead. If he were older and more withdrawn. And with less hesitation –

“You are looking for the girl.” Jeritza says, licking sugar from his lips, “But you are looking in the wrong place.”

“Saying you did not take her?”

“I did,” casually spoken. As if the act mattered little, “But she is no longer with us.”

Seteth howls in Byleth’s memories. Concern spiking hard in Byleth's chest. Byleth tenses and Jeritza tracks her movements with no small amount of displeasure.

“Crippled by compassion,” he says, condemning and it only turns more disappointed when Byleth growls, “Fear not Professor, she is not dead. You will find her within the monastery walls. Her return has been negotiated.”

“By who?” 

Jeritza dabs his mouth daintily with a handkerchief as he rises. His fork and plate is set neatly to the side, the table wiped clean of any crumbs. He pulls away from Byleth’s grasp with smooth ease, narrowing his eyes as he looks down at her.

“This was only to deliver a message. And I have done so. Farewell.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I have no more answers for you, Professor,” he looks at her, slate grey eyes cool for a moment before something manic and a little feral slips his facade, wiping away all resemblance to her brother, “Unless you cut them from me yourself.”

Byleth watches in silence as he bows to the barmaid, tracking his movements as he leaves the bar. His steps are slow and deliberate. 

Baiting.

Something thunders in her blood. Demanding answers as something darker, full of dread whispers about Jeralt’s movements. 

Her dreams lean closer. Fear drumming in her, frustration barking at the tail of it. Byleth kicks off the table, stalking after Jeritza, reading the tension in his back and shoulders as his blanket calm evaporates.

There is something wild and delighted in his eyes when he turns to meet her outside, the whine of his sword from its scabbard like a banshee.

“If you do not hurry Professor, you may not find her where we have left her. Lost children tend to wander.”

Byleth hears herself snarl in response. It was Bylead’s job to be compassionate and careful. To looks beyond the battlefield and their bloody lives as he stood out of the line of fire. It was hers to find answers. To do what needed to be done. 

The Sword of the Creator glows in her grip. The threat of the beast pulsing in her veins and she sees Jeritza respond in kind. The hungry desire of a man lost to warfare. He raises his sword –

“Teach?”

Claude rounding the corners. 

Metal flashes beneath the moonlight. 

His earring glimmers as she takes him to the ground hard, her hand slamming painfully into the cobblestone in place of his skull. Above her head, Fire razes the air and she turns just in time to see Jeritza parrying the shot before he a Warp takes him. Metal and flames lingering hot over her skin as she stares into the moonless alley, the darkness offering no answers.

“Found him did you?” Sylvain asks, voice shaking a little as he steps forward, his fingertips still smoking.

Claude’s fingers dig at her spine, a little hiccuped gasp high in his throat as he tries to sit up, squirming for a moment before going rigid beneath her. 

“And maybe Flayn,” Byleth pushing off the ground, yanking Claude upwards as she goes, annoyance digging into beneath her skin like a bur, slowly giving way to anger as she walks away. Her grip on the sword does not loosen, the edges of hilt rubbing raw against her palm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeralt "fuck the church" eisner
> 
> also byleth has two bastards now


	25. White Clouds: Rescue

“So unsociable.”

“You’re the one following me. I’d like you to – Professor.”

Bylead turns to see Felix and Dorothea approaching and manages to graze a finger against the Divine Pulse before it falls away from him. Still useless without Sothis. He drifts towards her, prying and is rewarded with nothing more than blanket silence.

“Felix,” he greets, masking a sigh. 

Felix’s gaze drops to the stairwell behind Bylead, jaw ticking as he folds his arms. His amber eyes are cool and full of judgment. Then again, that was Felix’s default. Poking for weakness and then turning his nose up when he found it. Bylead wonders if he realizes just how similar he and Sylvain are. As if he’d heard the thought, Felix bristles and Bylead can physically see him working up biting words.

"Oh, Professor," Dorothea says with no small measure of relief as she slides up beside Bylead. She takes his arm, folding it against hers as she leans close. The subtle sweetness of her fragrance tickles his nose. He catches a peevish glare she turns on Felix who only looks back nonplussed, before she turns back to Bylead, eyes wide and pleading, “Thank goodness you are here. I was in need of an escort but it seems there are no good men in the Kingdom.”

“You interrupted my training and then refused to leave,” Felix rolls his eyes, “Maybe you’ll have to settle for Empire nobles if you’re looking for a ‘good man’ to sink your claws into.”

Dorothea bristles against Bylead’s arm and he watches her anger turn sharp and bladed with no small measure of dread.

“Oh, of course that was what I was after, Felix,” Dorothea says and the saccharine sweetness of her voice makes Bylead cringe, “I have such a poor understanding of my own nature; thank goodness you are here to see through me as the silly girl I am, with no thoughts in her head except for marrying a nob–“

“Dorothea, I’ll walk you to your room,” Bylead interrupts. 

“No,” she shakes her head, managing a smile for Bylead, “The library actually. I’m having some trouble with my spells and Lysithea, the sweet darling, recommended some books to help.”

“At this time of night?”

“It’s not a great time to be digging around in crypts either,” Felix glances down the stairs, brows knitted in a firm glower, “Looking for a matching blade?”

“Just soothing my own nerves,” Bylead replies, holding back a retort that is more bitter. 

He’d found nothing for his trouble. The coffin that had held the Sword of the Creator had nothing to offer but a dusty lid and a few spiderwebs. Not even an inscription as to who had once laid there. He shivers recalling the smooth emptiness of the coffin, feeling cold. As if someone had walked over his grave.

“That’s an odd place to go,” Dorothea says, “If you are ever so troubled you’d go grave digging, you’re more than welcome to join me for tea.”

“Thank you.”

“Mmm, no need for such bland acceptance. You are allowed to refuse if you so wish.”

“You giving other people a choice, there’s a surprise,” Felix says as he keeps pace with them and Dorothea turns on him, throwing a few sparks at his feet that he sidesteps smoothly.

“Shoo you,” she says, “Seems our roles are reversed now and you’re the unwanted stray refusing to leave.”

“My room is this way.”

“Then it was really no trouble for you to have walked me in the first place now was it?”

“It’s not as if you can’t handle yourself. The entire monastery saw the Meteor you struck down days ago.”

“Just because I am capable does not mean I do not feel some measure of apprehension. Sometimes simple company helps. Especially at this time!” 

A few nuns and monks glance at their group in warning and Dorothea sighs, shaking her head as she tightens her hold on Bylead’s arm. Bylead tunes out the whispered prayers as they move through the cathedral, attention drifting over the few knights stationed within. There were probably more outside on the monastery grounds, patrolling and scouring for news of Flayn. He catches glimpses of wyverns outside, their great shadows blotting the stained glass as they pass by at regular intervals. Fifteen minutes between each wyvern. Jeralt would say there was plenty that could be done in fifteen minutes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be going to your room?” Dorothea asks Felix once they reach the second floor. 

There are only two guards outside of Rhea’s audience chambers. None outside the empty teachers’ rooms. Hanneman’s is dark and bare. His desk neatly organized without the stack of papers Bylead had cleared away two days prior.

“I need to speak to the Professor,” Felix says.

In contrast, Manuela’s quarters are a mess. Bylead glimpses scattered papers on the floors and table. A few potions and empty bottles turned over on the table. There’s a candle burning low and a half cup of tea beside a handful of ledgers and scrolls. 

“Then speak.”

“Without gossips around.”

“Gossip am I –“

And then Bylead smells it. A rotted smoke like old leaves caught in a chimney space and set alight. Subtle at first and growing stronger. He disengages from Dorothea, nerves prickling as he rounds the corner, the odor picking up sharply and –

Bylead shoves Dorothea backward, yanking Felix down by his vest as the hallway to the library goes alight. At the end of the hall, the two knights outside the audience chambers shout in alarm as Bolganone shakes the halls. 

The air goes bloated with smoke, great black clouds roiling over Bylead’s head.

“What the _fuck_?” Felix spits, springing to his feet.

The air twists and buckles, breaking towards a center point as if sucked into it. Bylead glimpses the smoke stuttering, pausing, and then pulling back down the hall they’d once come. Can nearly taste the second charge of magic. 

Bylead trips the knight running forward, dragging Felix backward as a second thunderous boom explodes from the same hallway. A spattering of flames clings to the stone, pouncing on the carpet beneath their feet as Bylead forces himself upright. His arms and shoulders throb as he stumbles forward cautiously to peek around the corners. He glimpses a fleeing shadow beneath the smoke and another on the ground crawling towards them, recognizes the shape of her hair and the cloak sprawled over the ground. 

“Oh my, Professor,” Manuela gasps as he approaches, her usual flirtation falling to pieces. She has one hand around a dagger in her stomach, her palm glowing blue as she layers Heals over herself, her skin cold and clammy to the touch. She blinks rapidly as if trying to clear her thoughts, the faint smile dying on her lips as she draws upon some small morsel of awareness, eyes going wide and panicked as she shoves at his chest, pointing at the library, “Flayn. Go.”

“My partner’s going for backup,” the knight Bylead had tripped says as he takes Manuela, “Surely you’re not going in alone.”

Bylead barely hears the words, heartbeat in his ears as he runs for the library. Thunder crackles in his palms, sinking into the scars of his last battle and making his entire arm shake as the spell slithers through his veins. The library doors buckle beneath the blast he loosens, creaking wildly as the hinges go loose. 

A set of eyes flash at Bylead like a rodent in the dark and with a swooping sense of dread, he recognizes the librarian hovering over Flayn’s prone form. 

Tomas snarls, a noise that is impossible from a human throat, containing too many pitches all at once twisted together in a confused mess. Bylead’s attention catches on the flask of red Tomas has in one hand. On the needle and line coming out of Flayn’s arm. On the scalpel inside her chest carving out a thin line –

Bylead’s vision splits.

He is in the library and not. 

On the throne and not. 

The library floor bleeds green. Invisible ley lines making themselves known The colors of Sothis’ hair burning into the earth itself. 

Zanado screams at him. The canyons brilliant beneath sunlight and then cruel with bloodshed. Old haunts looming over –

Tomas shouts, holding up a hand against the Thunder Bylead throws, catching the spell between glowing hands as he diverts it into the ground. It crashes like a wave, tearing deep gouges in the wood, cresting over desks and chairs, and grinding them to dust.

The air above Tomas ripples and puckers. Writhing as it twists in on itself before belching a hellish shriek that sinks into Bylead’s limbs, curls into the fine fibers of muscle and bone, slithering through him and rendering him immobile, holding him steady as –

A glimpse of Zanado again and strange men. Of intruders on their peace – 

His chest hurts and he doesn't know why. 

“Begone with you,” Tomas snarls, his kindly face twisted into something unrecognizable as something coils over his wrists like serpents, sputtering into the air in twin columns of purple smoke. The spell lurches at Bylead, coming for his face and the air turns acidic and tangy, the spell’s bite eating away the space between them. 

Bylead tumbles to the ground, knees buckling beneath him and whatever spell had once caught him shatters apart. His fingers graze his chest, panic seizing his body for one long second as he expects his fingers to slip through his ribs. 

Felix leaps over him, sword pulled back, sparking light as he swings at Tomas. A shield blooms between them, holds the blade inches away, and shatters as lightning erupts from the blade in great flashes, throwing them both aside. 

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Dorothea says, a cold grimace on her face as she kneels by Flayn.

Her upper lip curls in a snarl as she loosens a Thunder of her own when Tomas tries to run for her, keeping him at bay long enough for Felix to sweep in again. Dorothea’s fingers sweep over Flayn’s still form, glowing with a Heal and her brows furrow, concern and near panic looming on the edges of her tight-lipped grimace.

“I’m no Lin. Or Manuela,” she says, her hand hovering over the scalpel but not removing it. Her eyes are sharp when she looks at Bylead, full of cold knowing, “We need a real healer.”

Understanding her words for what it was, Bylead turns his attention back to Tomas, curving daggers around Felix’s swing to dig into Tomas’ knees, throwing him off balance just enough for Felix’s sword to catch on his cheek.

The tip of the blade sinks into human flesh and Tomas’ face sloughs off like gruel. Bylead watches, repulsion beating a drum in his chest as Tomas’ nose drips over the tip of Felix’s sword. His cheek splitting apart like cloth and peeling aside to reveal a blackened eye with yellow pupils.

The black beast of Conand Tower in another form.

Bylead catches Felix as he’s thrown aside, biting back a cry of pain as his shoulder is jerked back hard with Felix’s added weight. 

Before them, Tomas’ form twists and shifts, his hunch growing more pronounced as he sinks one gnarled hand into the drooping skin of his cheek and tears with the senseless ease of someone scratching an itch. The beast snarling as its attention alights on Dorothea and Flayn, manic greed setting the many lines of his face even deeper. He stretches a hand to them and Dorothea stiffens, a little hiccup of surprise caught in her throat. Her spell sputters beneath her fingers, her entire body locking. 

Bylead hurls another dagger and it’s swiped from the air, caught by a shield and crumbling to pieces against the barrier. 

A smile pulls Tomas’ mouth. The air twisting in a different way. Heavier. Darker. The ley lines bleed out in Bylead’s vision, colors twisting and bleeding purple. Acid and rot turning the air sour. The scent of death filling the space as Tomas stretches his hand out, his gaze on Flayn. His expression pulled tight with that malicious greed, with shameless open desire as the spell crescendos and releases. A massive fungus bloom of purple rot turning towards the two figures.

“Wait,” Bylead yanks Felix to the ground as he tries to run ahead, entire body shuddering beneath the weight of the spell.

Bylead grasps for the Divine Pulse but finds nothing. Grasping for – for –

Zanado shrieks. The canyons quiver beneath the scream of a dragon. Of someone crying out for lost family. The images warping beneath the memory of Seteth’s shuddering sob.

_“Macuil! Indech!” _A thousand more names shattering through his skull as the spell lunges over Flayn’s still form. Creeping over the slender body, over the scalpel like a lightning rod and _sinking in her chest for her heart –_

Bylead seizes on the pulse. Grabs the thin smoke tendrils and forces them solid as Sothis comes awake with a smothered gasp. Her consciousness sliding into his as time spins. Nausea burns his throat, stomach lurching at the feel. 

His vision stabilizes just as Tomas loses his face again and he hurls a dagger set alight with Fire for that great black eye, seconds from piercing before a Warp rips the air between weapon and man.

Something wobbles out from within, something set on three legs, ripping from a chasm in space in a grotesque parody of birth. Long many-knuckled fingers grasp as the edges of the spell, ripping wide as a black beast shambles out from within, it’s enormous snout and many teeth already too large for the small room.

“Dorothea, get Flayn out,” Bylead says but she’s already more than halfway out the door, Felix behind them, swinging a shield from his back to cover their retreat.

“Professor!” 

Annette and Ashe.

Bylead ducks a blast of Wind and rain of arrows, taking the opportunity to slip out from beneath the creature’s snout, tackling Tomas to the ground as the librarian rushes after his fleeing students. The man screams at him as Bylead sets a dagger into his palm, blood like ichor blotting the ground beneath them and then spinning open in another Warp.

“Begone with you!” Tomas shouts and Bylead cannot tell if he is referring to Bylead or the slender purple hand reaching out to snare Tomas’ upper arm.

“Ooh, didn’t Thales say to leave her alone?” a girl’s voice echoes from within. 

Bylead glimpses red eyes in the darkness and a row of too sharp teeth, feels something dig into his thigh and screams as Thunder racks his body. With effort, he rips himself off Tomas, tumbling over the floor, entire body still twitching beneath the spell. His fingers loosen over his dagger and it clatters noisily to the ground. 

The voice continues, sweetly pitched as it speaks to Tomas, “You’re going to be in big trouble, you greedy little man.”

“Do not interrupt my work,“ he spits, resistant to the pull of the spell, his hand still glowing as he clings to Bylead’s leg like an anchor. 

Bylead feels the grip turn into something larger, something invisible sinking into his thigh like a bear trap. A hard suction tears at his pant leg just above the knee, digging into skin. He slices at Tomas’ hand, gouging deep enough to chip bone and tears himself away, tumbling into the line of the black beast’s teeth. 

Annette seizes his shoulder with a little cry, dragging him back as a massive row of teeth collapse the ground he’d previously sat on. For one hysterical moment, he thinks the shape of those teeth are quite different from Miklan’s. 

Wonders who this once was. 

Whose sibling this –

Sagittae burns the air, lays lines of brilliant arrows streaking through like a gust of wind, impaling the creature’s chest as wood and iron arrows dig into the creature’s eyes and nose. 

“Professor, come on!” Annette shouts at him as the creature’s shadow slops off him without grace. 

Felix grabs for Bylead’s shirtfront, yanking roughly, but Bylead's attention is on Tomas’ vanishing form. 

On the glitter in those dark eyes as he goes below. Something vengeful and full of hatred. Bylead’s vision wobbles, a memory that is not his humming in the back of his head. 

“Out,” Bylead shoves at Felix’s chest, standing up on his own feet.

Acid and citrus and saccharine sweetness steal the breath of his lungs. Twisting as Tomas’ final spell runs for them. Turning into acidic rot, cloying and thick as a cloud. Death ready to descend.

Bylead gropes for a heavier spell of his own, feeling for – for –

Sothis shoves something into his hands, some weighty thing from deep within him. Something that makes his arms quake that he feels in his bones. He yanks the magic, shuddering as it cracks his bones and spirals into being. 

The black beast roars at them, lumbering forward again in that hobbling shambling stride, its mouth creaking open, ripping past the jawline to gape larger and wider.

The space between them buckles and then crumbles beneath Bylead’s fingers, cracking and rending then –

Bolganone erupts, ripping through the books –

Oh, he’d have to apologize to Linhardt. He was already so upset with Sylvain’s transfer. And Lysithea –

Felix yanks him downwards by the collar, tumbling over him, straddling his hips as he holds his shield above them all, arm shaking as the shield glows red against the flames. Bylead chokes on the black smoke, eyes watering and dimly, he is aware of Felix’s hand against his collar again. Of Annette grabbing for his shoulders and Ashe for his arm. Feels himself being pulled away as black smoke eats up the hallway once more. 

* * *

“We stitched her up,” the nun says, sounding disturbed as she touches the neat rows in Flayn’s chest, her fingertips sparking with healing magic, “It seems Tomas had medical knowledge. He was clinical in his approach. As if he were dissecting a specimen back in school.”

Blood and body.

That was what Tomas had been after. Those same cruel experiments. Those same cursed weapons.

Seteth buries his head in his hands as he bows his head over Flayn’s sleeping form. He can smell fire on her hair and it stirs bad memories. Of sisters and brothers lost to warfare. Of Seiros finding their mother, slain and broken. Of his sister holding a hand to his face, hiding him from a cruel truth as if he would not bear witness mere months later when it had been his eldest brother on a stone table. He remembers that face as a hollowed shell. Shattered and broken like a teacup, his body ripped in two. The earlier days of those wicked experiments. Before the Agarthans had honed the art of manufacturing weaponry from their bodies.

The Goddess’ descendants merely pieces of unrefined ore to be shined and polished and bent into weapons.

By Seteth’s side, Rhea radiates silent fury and he cannot dredge up anything but his own uncharitable misery.

What a pair they made. That he was doomed to drown in grief while Seiros sharpened hers into anger. He pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to hold back the tremble shaking his body. 

Someone touches his shoulder he clamps down hard on the flinch. 

“She’s alive,” Bylead says quietly and then hands him a teacup.

Angelica tea.

Perfectly brewed. 

Bylead also hands him a cookie from the platter he sets on the nightstand.

“You should eat,” Bylead says, nodding at the line coming from Seteth’s arm, indicating the run of blood in the narrow tubing. 

Seteth fights back the retort that he would hold himself well enough together to give Cethleann whatever she needs. That he was more than capable of doing at least this much for his –

He doesn’t. He seals his mouth shut. Closes the door on the life before Seteth and utters a quiet thank you. Somehow, he thinks the Professor understands. Remembers how his sister had reacted the day he’d been sent to Zanado. Remembers lecturing her about her restlessness. Before he’d gone to lecture Tomas about being too lenient on Claude and Linhardt’s curiosity. 

Seteth’s lip curls. 

Understanding like a stone in his chest as he realizes the supplier for those books. How many months – no, how many years had Tomas been with them? How many moves had slipped by beneath their noses?

Bylead squeezes his shoulder, drawing him back.

With a start, Seteth blinks away his blurry vision, focusing on Flayn. 

She looks as peaceful as she had a century ago. Eons before there had been Kingdom and Alliance or even Empire. When she’d known nothing of war and asked for bedtime tales of heroes and legends. Before she knew that such things were only crafted to lightened the misery of battle and warfare. He reaches out for her hand, the slender bone like porcelain in his.

Only sleeping.

A part of him could laugh at his own use of the word.

Memories of the last century rise to the forefront of his mind. Of a bed best served as a coffin. Hidden rooms like a tomb. Of Flayn still and silent as a doll. Him sitting at the foot of her bed, listening to a breath that resounds in the cavernous hollows of the chamber, waiting with bated breath for the moment it changes. 

“Maybe you should tighten up security,” Felix tells Rhea, tilting his head and shifting his posture as if ready for another brawl. The Aegis Shield shifts on his shoulder, hovering too close to Flayn. 

A brother’s scalp hovering over a sleeping daughter. A cruel mockery of what could have been. 

“Thank you for your advice,” Rhea says coolly.

Felix scoffs, “You’d think after the Mausoleum –“

“Oh, honestly Felix. Keep your mouth shut would you,” Dorothea says, standing up sharply, “Goddess forbid you show some sympathy.”

“Sympathy won’t buy security.”

“No, but it’ll buy you some humanity.”

“Stop it,” Ashe hushes them both, a scowl on his face. His eyes drift to Seteth and then Flayn, lashes dipping as he breathes out a slow breath, “This isn’t proper.”

Seteth remembers the mission last month with jarring clarity. Jeralt’s report ringing in his mind. Solemn words without a measure of sorrow spoken in a too-large room. The dead spoken as a victory. 

_“I’m sorry for your loss,” _burns his tongue and he holds the words tight, swallowing them away. 

Ashe had no use for them now and they would serve as little more than an insult spoken so callously from someone who’d lent knights and ordered the march on Gaspard. There were no victories to be had even after the War of Heroes. Peace always eroding at the edges, eager to be broken. 

“Indeed,” Rhea says, turning to the knights outside the door, “But if you have advice to offer, then I shall hear it. I would like to see where this took place. Come.”

Seteth watches her leave with Felix and Dorothea in tow, some part of him wanting to reach out to his sister, beg her to share in his grief. But they have never been good at that. No matter how many eons and centuries slipped by them. Too stubborn to do anything but confront sorrow on their own.

“Her pulse is slow –“ the nun says, drawing his attention back. 

Seteth watches as she draws the needle from Flayn’s arm, his entire body tensing at the sight. 

_It always is. Has been since the wars._

“But within normal ranges. That should be enough,” the nun says, pulling the needle from Seteth’s arm.

_It isn’t. It’s not. She sleeps still. Take more from me if it will help my daughter. Please –_

Bylead squeezes his shoulder hard to keep him from grabbing after the line, offering a tight smile when Seteth’s first instinct is to growl at him. Something worn thin and full of exhaustion. Seteth slumps in his seat.

“All we can do now is wait,” the nun says. 

The Professor squeezes again, sitting close.

“Thank you all,” Seteth says, his voice rough with emotion, closing his eyes to a familiar tune, “I can never- I can never thank you enough.”

“It’s enough that she’s alive with you,” Bylead says, so quietly Seteth nearly misses it, already slumping forward, the weeks of exhaustion creeping over his old bones as he bows his head and readies himself for the wait. 

* * *

“You came at a good time,” Bylead tells Ashe and Annette as they close the door on the archbishop’s chambers.

He catches one last glimpse of Seteth beside his sister and cannot help the sigh of relief.

_“That was a dangerous way to wake me,” _Sothis chides him but there is no heat in her voice as she stares after the door separating her and the two siblings. There’s a longing in her as if she wants to push open the doors and stay.

“I’m just glad they’re together again,” Bylead says, feeling as if he’s taking a breath for the first time in a long while.

It’d felt like a long time since he’d been a part of something successful. Something solely good. Ashe bumps him, offering a hesitant smile as he hovers close.

“Yeah,” Ashe confesses, offering the first smile Bylead has seen since Gaspard, “Me too.”

Bylead startles as Annette tumbles into his chest.

She wraps her arms around him tight enough he’s certain his bones creak, grimacing at the sharp thrum of pain his upper body before she releases him with a low gasp.

“I’m so sorry,” she cries, mouth wobbling as she repeats her words. From the look in her eyes it’s clear she means to apply the apology to more than just a simple hug, “Goddess - I’m so – I’m such a–“

“Annette,” Bylead hushes her, drawing her back in. Her shoulders tremble and then go loose as she buries her face in his chest. The front of his shirt growing damp as she mumbles more apologies against him.

“It doesn’t –,” Bylead shakes his head, offering a small smile, only able to feel thankful that she was no longer so blatantly avoiding him, “Think nothing of it.”

Slowly, she pulls away from him, wiping roughly at her eyes as she does. A little twitch of hesitation on her face at his words.

“I spoke to my father the other day,” she offers in a near whisper, “After Flayn went missing. I offered to search together and then I yelled at him again.”

Her lips wobble as she offers Bylead a hesitant smile, “But he stayed long enough to hear it this time.”

“I’m glad,” Bylead says.

“You really are, aren’t you?” a little touch of wonder in Annette’s voice before she smiles, “Sylvain was telling Ingrid you’re too nice for your own good, Professor.”

“Really is, isn’t he?”

“Professor Byleth!”

Byleth nods at them, her expression thunderous for those who knew to read her. The same glower he’d been subjected to when he’d returned to their camp at eleven, a slain rabbit in hand. 

“We found Flayn,” he tells her, squaring his shoulders.

“So I heard. Fire is difficult to miss. So is the sound of windows shattering. You nearly hit Claude with a pane of glass.”

He can read the lecture in Byleth’s face. The minuscule twitch in her face marking her irritation. The faint furrow in her brows as she looks him up and down in search of injury. And something else, terrible and full of fear that is smeared away by her glower. 

He sets his jaw, bracing himself.

“No injuries,” Annette says, stepping in front of Bylead, “Not for the Professor either. Ashe and I made it in time.”

Bylead sees Byleth’s grimace. A minute tick in her jaw as she folds her arms. 

“I see,” an edge to her voice.

“Teach! Come on, you can’t just take off that fast,” Claude shouts as he catches up to her, nearly half the monastery behind him. Straggling students half-dressed and bleary-eyed. 

Byleth twitches at the sight of them and Bylead breathes out a careful breath as her attention drifts off him. 

“I heard the noise and saw fire,” Dimitri says. He’s not dressed for bed. No doubt another long night at the training grounds. Bylead hides a frown.

“The gossip’s already begun to churn through the rumor mills. Seems there’s truth to be found in gossip this time. To think Tomas was able to crawl in so easily,” Hubert says, his face twisting with disdain as he glances down the singed hallways, “Seems the Church has been rather lax in their selection of faculty.”

He flashes a smile full of challenge and derision, “No criticism intended for our present company.”

“If the gossip is true, then it was the Professor who discovered Flayn,” Edelgard says, folding her arms.

“Very well,” Hubert says, bowing in a way that reads as sarcastic, “I shall retract my criticism if it pleases you, Lady Edelgard.”

She sighs a little, turning towards Byleth, “Still, it was indeed bold of Tomas to try and carry her away so close to the archbishop’s room.”

“First Jeritza, now Tomas,” Claude pinches Byleth’s cheek and Bylead sees his sister’s hand twitch towards her sword, sparing a moment of worry for his life, “You’re not hiding anything behind that unreadable face are you?”

Edelgard slaps his hand down before Byleth can, frowning heavily in judgment.

“Dorothea – is it true she was involved?” Ferdinand asks.

“She’s assisting the Archbishop with her investigations. Felix too,” Annette replies.

“Felix was here?” Ingrid glances down the halls, full of concern and Sylvain follows her gaze. 

Byleth grabs her, physically blocking their path as they try to slip down the hall.

“Missed the fight so there’s no need for you to be involved with clean-up,” Byleth says, “Back to your quarters. Now.”

Dimly, Bylead wonders if she’s aware that she mimics Jeralt’s posture. Shoulders squared, chin up. That same grave set to her jaw.  


“You can’t expect me to sleep now with everything going on,” Caspar sputters a protest as she physically lifts him and sets him back down facing the other way.

“I’m sure _Flayn_ could use the rest without your yelling,” she says, tilting her head at the audience chamber doors meaningfully and Caspar grumbles something like ‘low blow’ and ‘so unfair.’

“C’mon you,” Byleth stretches out an arm to Bylead. 

“I’m not sorry,” he mutters under his breath as they walk the students back to their dorms and she rolls her eyes at him, dragging him close as carefully as she can. 

She ruffles his hair roughly as if she were taller than him still. Hard enough for him to grimace and pout at her and it feels so much like coming home after a mission he cannot summon the wherewithal to be irked. 

“Yeah, you’re just overjoyed they’re back together again.”

“Yes.”

Byleth’s lips twitch. Her gaze soft, nearly tender before she remembers herself and goes stern again. That complicated twist in her expression whenever she tried to mimic father during their training. 

“You smell like shit by the way,” she says and he cannot help his own smile as he slings an arm around her. 

It feels as if they’re walking to a bar again, battle-worn but accomplished, ready for drink and music.

He ruffles her hair and she gives him a look that threatens to bite his hand off. 

“Beat you to it,” he whispers, stifling a laugh when she pinches him, batting her hands away from his waist.

“Damn brat,” Byleth utters back in a rough approximation of Jeralt’s voice and Bylead –

Walks straight into Dimitri. The prince is staring, wide-eyed. 

“Oh – that, Professor, can you make that face again?” he asks in a low whoosh of breath.

Bylead blinks at him, trying to recall and then summons a grin to his face. He must not do it properly. Dimitri doesn’t react, entire face frozen as he stares at Bylead with such intensity, Bylead doesn’t know what to do with it, his own cheeks heating under the appraisal. 

Byleth coughs.

“Oh! I – my apologies,” Dimitri says, covering his mouth. He glances to Byleth, eyes flitting up to the ceiling as if afraid to look at her for too long, “I - I – um –“

His eyes glance everywhere but at Bylead, a touch of panic in his face narrowing into a furious glower when he sees Sylvain and Claude. Who are grinning at him like twin cats. 

“I didn’t – I – it seems I can dangerously close to teasing you, Professor,” Dimitri says slowly.

“Tease,” Byleth snorts, under her breath, “Is that what we call it nowadays?”

“Seemed more like –“ 

“Hubert,” Edelgard cuts him off, covering her own mouth to hide a little smile. 

A look of utter betrayal crosses Dimitri’s face as he turns on her, mouth open like a gaping fish as a blush spreads over his face.

“Oooh, so that’s a mystery solved,” Sylvain sings, swooping in to grab Dimitri’s neck, “If you recall, I did guess it was the Prof –“

He doubles over, clutching his stomach. Claude steps around him, nonplussed, saying something low that makes Dimitri advance on him. 

“What? What’s going on?” Caspar asks.

“Oh, nothing for you to concern yourself about,” Ingrid says, hiding a little smile of her own.

Dimitri chases the others off, stalking forward like a lion on the prowl.

“Good job,” Byleth says quietly as she watches them go. 

Bylead smiles at her again, unable to help himself, feels it bloom over his face, his chest warming with the sincerity of her words.

“Yeah?”

“You got yourself out safe. And her,” Byleth looks at him, full of solemn concern, “Would’ve been enough for me if just you got out safe.”

Bylead sighs, squeezing her shoulders briefly. 

The faint memory of Miklan against his back fading beneath Byleth’s hand as she returns the gesture. He glances at the archbishop’s door. Feels something tug within him. 

“… In our next life, I want to be siblings again.”

He feels Byleth go stock still. Her expression torn. Something like terror crossing her face before she looks at him, exasperation smearing away at her as she stares at his face. His throat. His arm. Searching for something –

“Tch, how ominous,” she grouses, shoving at his face, “Don’t wish death on me just yet.”

It is only because they’re leaning against each other that he feels the tremble in her hand.

“Byleth?”

“It’s nothing,” she says but before he can bristle at the lie, she corrects herself, her gaze growing distant, “Only some bad dreams.”

_“I dreamt about the girl,” she tells him, “I did not find it quite so comforting as you do.”_

His own dreams hover closer. A throne and Zanado. Canyons beneath a massive sky. The split in his vision minutes ago. Those many names that had screamed in his ears as he faced down Tomas. 

Something pulls harder in his chest as he gazes at his sister’s profile.

“Byleth, will you come with me to Zanado?” he glances to the students and then back, “Just us. It’s been a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more claudeth next time - just now realizing it's been a while since he's gotten screentime :v


	26. White Clouds: Zanado

Claude slips into Tomas’ office behind a knight leaving with an armload of books, sparing one moment of regret at being unable to access those tomes. 

The office, once clinically precise and carefully maintained, now had the straggling messy look of a room abandoned. 

The knights had been thorough in their search. Of course, they had, having been personally overseen by Rhea. Claude has no doubt anything deemed proof of Tomas’ sins had already been removed or burned. He’d snuck out of his dorm after the others had turned in, catching Byleth’s eye as he’d slipped into Jeralt’s room, and then kept watch throughout the night as the knights had marched through the halls in an endless stream. Books, scrolls, and a few full flasks had been the first things to go, carted away under Rhea’s instructions until dawn when something from the Professor had drawn her away. 

Something about a nonsensical mission. 

Claude makes a note to tell Teach she needs more creative lies. And a much quicker excuse. He shakes out his arms, a little smirk on his face as he considers how he’ll grouse to her later about his lack of beauty sleep. 

In his mind, she snaps at him to focus and with a put-upon sigh, he turns his attention back to the task. 

Seconds flit through his mind, numbers at a steady count, as he begins his search. Fourteen minutes before the knights would return He’d watched the knights move from Tomas’ chambers down to the cathedral, no doubt shuffling items away to the recesses of the mausoleum locked away from students. Their numbers had slowed when dawn had broken, staggering off as the more important materials had been carted away until there was a rough fourteen to eighteen minute interval in which the room was empty and he could be undisturbed.

Claude goes for the medicine cabinets first, finding a smattering of herbs and plants. A few recognizable but some not. Even more he’d only glimpsed in marketplaces but never toyed with in his spare time. He snatches a few particularly odd plants with no leaves but a thriving root system and too many fibers. In the few empty flasks on the floor, he finds two recently used with a clinging residue he scrapes off the glass into his own vials. A tablet here and there, caught in the corners of drawers or under a rug that he tucks away as well. A scroll with only schedules and library budgets. A few from forty years prior, when Tomas had first left. Nothing immediately suspicious which might explain why they’ve been left behind. 

He lets his mind flick through the scroll, memorizing what he can just in case before moving onto the floorboards and walls, running his fingers along even grooves and clean brickwork.

“Surely you have more than these meager offerings,” Claude huffs under his breath, blowing his braid out of his face. 

Eight_ minutes gone_, the numbers flag in his mind as he moves but he doesn’t let himself hurry, focus narrowing on the bump and feel of the walls beneath his fingers until his middle finger at last snags on an odd brick. Sixty-seventh from the right wall at the very bottom. With a knife from his pocket he pries at the groove he’d felt midway, poking until a piece crumbles enough for him to hook his finger into the stone and pull it loose, revealing a hidey-hole big enough for a hand but no more. 

He presses into the space, the opening cutting him off just a little past the wrist and struggles to maneuver against those constraints.

_Twelve minutes. Time to leave,_ registers in his mind and he clenches his teeth against it.

He had a maximum range of eighteen minutes. It would be fine. 

Another part of him, that same Almyran brat that’d been beaten in an alley for stealing a dagger from his cousin’s room, the prince who knew to turn a blind eye to missing eunuchs and maids and never look too obviously at shadows, disagrees. Loudly. 

Claude swallows down the thought. Closing his mind against frustrated panic as he continues to grope in the space, finding rock and gravel and nothing more but surely – _surely _there had to be –

Something smooth meets his pinky. Something tucked against the very corner, laid into stone. It doesn’t budge no matter how bloody he scrapes his fingers into it. The object sliding out of the grip of his fingertips with mocking ease. His nails graze the very top, something with a lip, and fall away. A vial?

_Fourteen minutes gone._

There are boots down the hall. Far enough away he can pull back now and walk away. Glide out of the room without a single one of them able to accuse him of sticking his nose where it did not belong. Teach would disapprove him getting caught and he huffs at the thought of her blank-faced stare so heavily drenched in judgment. Sees it turn to disappointment as the knights present his findings to Seteth or, worst, Rhea. Claude wrinkles his nose in distaste and refuses to turn from the wall. 

He jams his pocket knife into the space by the object, scraping rock and stone and feeling it give. He can feel a more pronounced edge. Enough to feel out a cylindrical shape.

“Ugh, how many more trips?” one of the knights huffs, their voice muffled by distance, “Just those damn books alone were enough for me.”

“We must be thorough. An attack on Garreg Mach is no joke.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s not like we haven’t already got everything important.”

There’s a knot in the back of Claude’s shoulder. The point of stone digging painfully into his neck and cheek as he tries the dagger at another angle. More stone. More gravel. Dirt flakes but nothing big enough to free the object. He closes his mouth carefully against a frustrated snarl. 

The footsteps are closer, steady as his cousins’ had been when they’d gauged his hiding place. 

_“Oh ~ come here often?” he grins at the knights, shoulders and loose an at ease as if he didn’t have his hand in a traitor’s secret stash, “You guys missed something.”_

_ As they advance on him –_

An old sick swoop of his stomach. Old dread he had no use for here, so potent he can feel his lip thrumming with pain as – oh, he’d been biting them.

“Ugh, I’ll just be glad to be done.”

By Seteth’s door.

Claude ties a noose around his panicked thoughts. There was nothing to be gained from panic but some heart palpitations and he twists the dread in his stomach into something logical. The knights wouldn’t touch him. Not Lord Reigan-to-be. 

He jams the knife as hard as he can without leverage, grimacing as it skids the surface of the object and wastes a harrowing second checking for cracks.

Footsteps past the teachers’ rooms now.

Mercifully there’s only a faint scar against the lip and he can feel the clean edge of the vial on all sides now, his prize seconds from falling. His knife digs into stone, the sound shrieking too loud in his ear, echoing the thud of his heart and the encroaching footfalls. He can feel the knife’s blade starting to go, the edge dulling. 

He’ll have to find another one to place under his pillow at night. Would need another one _now_ to work into the space between stone and vial. Would have to spare precious seconds to –

It comes loose.

He lunges for it, cursing furiously in his mind as it falls away from his fingers. The object tinkles as it falls against stone.

Footsteps rounding the halls. Mere meters from a door he had not locked. 

The back of his hand scrapes against rough rock as he feels for his prize. His heartbeat in his ears as his fingertips summon nothing but brick, shoulders aching with the strain and –

Paper?

His hand rushes against the divot the vial had been sunken into. Feeling something smooth and crisp and he swears furiously in his head. 

Make a choice.

Vial or –

Boots in the library. That first wooden board creaking.

Claude slaps his hand down, fingers spread wide, and mercifully, feels the vial at his very fingertip. He seizes it just as a hand appears on the edge of the office doorframe –

“Hey guys!” 

Raphael?

“Delivery here!” the sound of groaning as something heavy drags across the floor, “Tomas’ last orders for the library.”

“Ugh, c’mon kid,” the hand pulls away from the door and Claude pockets the vial.

He looks at the wall and then to the door. Dives back for the slip of paper. 

“You shouldn’t be playing around with these things.”

“What do you mean?” Raphael’s booming voice masks the scrape of Claude’s dagger as he shoves it into brick again. 

“C’mon, the news has gotten around the monastery by now,” the knight says, sounding aggrieved as he steps away, “Hand it here, kid. We don’t know what else Tomas was up to. I’ll carry one end. Bring it down to the cathedral.”

“I’ll finish up here.”

Claude cringes, fingertips snaring on the delicate edge of the paper, feeling it start to tear in his haste. A shadow grazes the doorframe. The person –

“There’s three more downstairs,” Raphael says, “Might need some more people. Or I can bring ‘em all down where you want me to!”

Another aggrieved sigh and the knight steps away from the door again. 

“Lead the way kid.”

“What? I can handle it!” Raphael makes a little roaring sound like he’s flexing again, “This is great training!”

“Yeah, I’m sure you can,” exasperation and amusement in equal parts. 

Raphael had a gift, Claude notes, as the big guy guides away the knights with a booming laugh and nothing more than bright sincerity. 

“Color me impressed,” Claude mouths silently, making a mental note to hunt something for the big guy.

His next scrapes are covered beneath the sound of Raphael’s little grunts and shouts. With some maneuvering, Claude manages to drag the note up and out from where it’d been slotted into the rock. He does a final pass for anything still remaining before yanking his hand out and slipping the brick back in place.

Feeling victorious, Claude slides his prize and dagger into his inner pockets, taking care to keep his footsteps silent as he slips from the office out into the library and around the –

“Claude.”

He dodges Hilda’s outstretched foot, dancing gracelessly around it as he tries to stop himself from falling. 

“Hilda, always a pleasure,” he says, pulling up a grin as he straightens.

She’s not alone. Edelgard raises a perfect eyebrow at him and then pushes away from the wall she’d been leaning on. Hubert stands further down the hall, doing the very least to pretend he is not a sinister sentinel at the corner.

“Your Imperial Highness. What luck to be surrounded by such beautiful roses.”

“You found something,” Edelgard says, ignoring him. She stretches her hand out imperiously.

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”

“Claude.”

He grins. Fodlan nobles had such an art to the amount of disdain and judgment they could put in his name. Not so different than their savage Almyran counterparts.

_“Khalid,”_ spoken around a growl, followed by a slur. 

“Only a handful of plants,” he says, retrieving the clump from his pockets to tickle Edelgard’s palm. She slaps his hand away with a sour glare, “Want a taste?”

Suspicion tightens the corner of her eyes but she says nothing, unable to summon another accusation without more evidence. 

“You could throw your saviors a bone,” Hilda says, producing a pout, “Whatever you’ve got tucked away would’ve been snapped up by the knights if I didn’t send Raphael in after you.”

“Alright, alright, you got me,” he sighs, producing the three tablets he’d found, “Unfortunately I don’t know what it is.”

“Tablets for sleep,” Edelgard says at once and the surety in her voice gives him pause. She frowns at the plant in his other hand, “And for pain. No doubt what he gave Flayn to be able to carve into her chest while she slept. How despicable.”

“To be swallowed?” Claude muses.

“Inhaled,” Edelgard says, her mask stiff as she watches him crumble a tablet to pieces, her fingers twitching as he holds it closer to his nose as if she is about to slap it out of his hand, “It’s turned to gas. Dissolved then burned.”

“You certainly know a lot about this, princess,” Claude grins at her, thinking on the tacky residue in some of the open flasks, “Who knew you were so fascinated with potions and medicine. A woman after my own heart.”

She does not take that as a compliment, lips pursing.

“It was in our studies with Professor Manuela," she says with a haughty shake of her head, “Hanneman, himself, was involved with creating rotary presses for these tablets. These were meant for surgeries. To reset bone and stitch wounds without pain. You could take your studies seriously.”

There’s a lie in her words somewhere. Something pinging his instinct but nothing he can sink his teeth into. As if he is pressed up against brick and mortar again, groping for something just beyond reach. 

Hilda makes a face, “Sounds miserable. I hope you’re going to turn them over to the Professor when she gets back.”

Wait. 

What?

“Back?”

That was unfair. Teach hadn’t said anything to him. Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen her since the night prior. 

Hilda hides a little smile that hedges on mean, a little singsong amusement from someone who knew something he did not.

“Curious are we?”

“The Professors left Garreg Mach this morning,” Edelgard says, “At sunrise. Lady Rhea has been … concerned.”

_In a snit_, Claude thinks that’s what she means as he parses through his memories as he pockets his prizes. Ah, that mission she’d mentioned. Perhaps not an excuse after all.

He twirls the clasp on his braid, wondering. How rude of Teach to not inform him. 

“Classes are canceled by the way. Kinda tough when more than half the teachers are outta commission,” Hilda says, rocking on her heels, “Want to know where they went? Have something to offer for my information?” 

A little dagger of a smile. 

“Ah, Hilda,” he sighs, spreading his arms wide, ready to launch into his –

“Claude! There you are,” Dimitri strides up to them, Dedue and Hubert following close behind, the two retainers gauging the other from the corners of their eyes.

“The Professor rode out for Zanado this morning,” Dimitri says, deaf and blind to the way Hilda sags and the thin exasperation that comes over Edelgard's face, “With Professor Byleth. But our class was not informed. Might you know something about this?”

Oh, Dimitri. 

He truly was Claude’s favorite. 

“Not a clue,” Claude says easily, smile spreading wide as he drapes an arm over the prince, ignoring Dedue’s frown, “But I hate not knowing what’s going on. Shall we find out? Would hate to know anything happened to your _beloved_ Professor_._”

“Yes, of cours – what? No!” Dimitri shoves at him - which, _ow! _\- going pink, “I am simply concerned. Flayn was only just recovered yesterday.”

“And I have a favor to ask the Professor,” Dedue says. 

Covering for his charge. Or maybe not. For a half-second, his typically stern face looks even graver but he says nothing else even when Dimitri looks at him curiously.

“Perhaps we should follow them,” Hubert says.

“Intrigued are we?” Edelgard asks. She gives Claude a considering look and then smiles, “Yes, let’s do just that. We will consider this … inter-house training.”

She offers Claude an arm and he takes it despite himself, back tingling with the feel of an invisible knife as she folds him into her hold. 

Ah, such a lovely rose with such sharp thorns. 

It’s almost as if he’s back in Almyra again.

* * *

“Is this really the time for passing whimsy?” Rhea asks, more to herself than anyone else, her hand trembling as she reads over the single line note Byleth had left.

It reads like a half-thought. As if the Professor had cared little about reassuring Rhea’s nerves. 

With a grim smile, Rhea sets the note to the side, refusing to think on the girl Sothis had been before this host. Someone quieter, who preferred flowers and gardening over battlefields and swords. Someone so like Sothis, Rhea could not fathom why the crest had not taken. Sitri stirs in her memories, features of her face faded with time but still with that faint half-smile. Almost like mother’s smile but too doll-like and blank to be the same.

Rhea removes her headpiece, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“The Professors have proven themselves more than capable,” Seteth says dully, his eyes unseeing as he swallows down his breakfast. 

Clearly having forgotten his protests at their initial hires.

Rhea bites back a retort as she sits down across from him for her own breakfast. 

It’s a near mimicry of Zanado. Their tastes have changed little. Still the same Angelica tea blend with his eggs and simple toast and her own Crescent Moon blend. The only thing missing is the noise and cheer of simple times. Siblings and cousins running under the table. Half transformed young ones shoving at each other to be the first to run through the doorway, wings and claws slapping the frame as they squabbled. 

Seteth scrubs his face, displacing his circlet as he does. With no small amount of frustration, he sets it to the side, pushing his hair back to reveal the sharp points of his ears. Those same pointed tips that marked them other. Painted a target on their backs. Brought out monsters from the dark like ghouls from a children's tale. 

Rhea tugs his hand away with too much force, drawing a sharp reproachful look from her brother.

“It is only us in the room,” he snaps, “If the monastery is not safe, I would hope your quarters, at the very least, are.”

Rhea bites back unkind words.

Does not remind him that Zanado had been safe until it hadn’t.

She releases his hand instead, gritting her teeth against the tremble in her fingers as she places them back in her lap. 

“Flayn sleeps still,” Seteth says, voice carefully measured. As slow and precise as Indech with his clumsy mannerism and disdain for voicing his thoughts.

Rhea twitches at the familiar tone.

_“I tire of warfare and grief, sister. I have no desire to lead your knights or sing our old lullabies as hymns. You will walk that path alone,” Indech tells her, his eyes like steel as he looks over the deep bow of Seteth’s back before his wife’s grave, “And you should not take what remains of our family in any more bloodshed.” _

_ “I didn’t start this war,” she snaps at him, far angrier in the days after the war than she’d been during but with far fewer outlets._

_ “No, but you will have to end it,” Indech says with that quiet all too knowing look before he withdraws and refuses to say anymore, disappearing into the waters. _

“I’m thinking of taking her underground again when she awakens.”

“Perhaps for the best,” Rhea says, numbly, closing her hand into fists. 

She’d never been the sort to beg her siblings to stay by her side. 

Seiros had buried Sothis alone, left her siblings to cry and scream by mother’s bedside while she’d taken what little remained and clawed out a hole with her own hands in the back garden. 

Had carved vengeance into Nemesis' body and then ripped the Sword of the Creator away from a bloody corpse herself before laying mother to rest for a second time beneath Garreg Mach.

Seiros moved alone and always had. 

Better that way. 

Their absence had allowed her, in the years that followed, when the guilt and grief had been too much for her to bear, to pick up the Agarthan texts her sibling could not bear to look at. Allowed her to move over wicked knowledge and cruel experiments like a woman possessed. And when that voice on the throne had called for her like a siren song in the night, with that gentle ancient lullaby, Seiros had been able to answer. Had gone down into the dark alone with new knowledge gleaned from spoils of war, and returned mother’s heart to a live being. 

She could move better without them. 

Her thoughts flick to the sword. Back to the note and missing twins, following them out to –

“Rhea are you listening to me?”

Oh. 

She blinks at her brother, startled by the twisted anger in his face. His lips quiver a little as he struggles to keep his expression neutral. His eyes sharp as if he were regarding an enemy instead of a sibling.

“Goddess, what is your obsession with Jeralt’s kin?” he snarls but the point of his teeth remain blunt and human, the dragon in him lost to old battlegrounds, “Can you not spare a moment for your own niece?”

Anger stemming from grief, twisted and knotted in on itself. Ever-patient Seteth on his last nerve.

“You wound me Seteth,” Rhea says after a long moment, “Cethleann is family, what little I have left. I would not be able to bear it if she were –”

She shakes her head, disliking the thought, and Seteth’s cup cracks in his hand. He sets it down too hard and the bottom chips, his gaze full of something accusatory, something sharp and twitching for a fight. A look Rhea understood well. 

“Then go see her,” he says quietly, “Instead of chasing after one of our Professors with no relation.”

A part of her twitches in rebellion at the thought but she does not correct him. Cannot confess what she’d done in a moment like this, “Of course I will. But we are responsible for far more than–“

“Than what?! Say the words, Seiros. What is more worthy of your concern than your own  – ?” Seteth stops, disbelief cracking his expression wide, hollowing out the core of him as he stares at her like a stranger.

“Seteth –“

“No. I am responsible for my daughter. And my daughter only,” he shakes his head, rising to his feet, “I joined your war before I did not want to lose any more siblings and cousins. I sacrificed much for your cause, Seiros.”

_Her brother’s scream is earth-rending over a dying battlefield._

_ Cichol’s tail rips over her head as he sweeps overhead like a tangled kite tail. His screams a miserable parody of his yelping first flight over Zanado. He lands on his wing and the bone shatters inwards, the skin tearing like silk as the dragon slips from his shoulders and back like tar. _

_ Rhea steps over him, roaring as she releases a breath of fire, scattering the mages and soldiers that come for his body. She hears him scream behind her, manic and desperate, roaring with a human voice as he struggles upright. She sees him try for the dragon and fail. Sees the flickering of scales over his cheeks and jaw, and then sees them fade away as his expression tears wide in silent disbelief and terrible realization. _

_ His wife groans on the ground, her massive bulk bloody and broken, curled tight over Cethleann in a human guise, enormous claws shielding a bleeding daughter._

“I refuse to sacrifice Cethleann as well,” Seteth says, trembling as if he were walking that battlefield again, “We’re going back underground when she awakens. I would spend some time with her while you can. Before you have to search for her in lakes and deserts as you do Indech and Macuil.”

Rhea doesn’t flinch at the slam of the door, eyes closing as she leans back in her chair. She breathes out a low breath of irritation that burns too hot against her lips. Her shoulders ache, wings itching beneath the surface to be allowed out, a part of her yearning the vast open freedom of the sky to sort out her troubles. 

She doesn’t do that. Instead, she goes back to the note on her desk, staring sightlessly at the scrap left behind, mother’s lullaby in the back of her throat as she tries to settle her thoughts. 

Tries to remind herself Seteth’s patience had been learned. Something he had worked at and worked at still after his last foolish act had cost him so much.

_His wife twists over Cethleann, a low mournful cry mangled pain as she jostles her unconscious daughter, the low groan of one who understood their death and saw it come close. She leans over Cethleann’s face, low clicking sounds in the back of her throat lost to the scream and roar of warfare. Final words for a daughter who would not hear them. _

Rhea wonders if Sothis had had words for Seiros on that final day as well. 

* * *

Zanado is massive, appears more so when it is only the two of them without the press of unfamiliar knights and students Bylead had not yet been familiar with. 

The land stretches out long and lazy, fat belly marked with hills and peaks and crumbling rock formations. A thin meandering brook weaves over the valley’s belly, slithering between rock and stone. The trees are lined with gold and orange, lining their path with a fiery carpet.

Sothis steps out of his body, humming a little as she walks ahead with the absently precise movements of someone who was accustomed to this space.

He lets her go as far as she will, not bothering to hurry behind and she does not rush him, preoccupied with her own thoughts as she glances about. She lays idle touches on broken statues, kicks her feet on the scattering remains of a stone path, and looks about with a little frown as if trying to sort through what she had seen before and what she had not. 

“We missed the harvest season,” Byleth laments, no doubt thinking on tavern celebrations and fine ale. M usic and dance lasting through the night and village men and women seeking her attention.  


With a start, Bylead realizes he’d seen through two seasons at Garreg Mach. 

“When was the last time we were together on a mission?” 

“Remire,” comes the immediate response and then after a pause, “This is hardly a mission. No coin has passed to my hand.”

“So petty,” Bylead flicks a gold coin at her and she throws it back at his face with too much strength for a joke, forcing him to duck, “Hey.”

“Better petty than cheap.”

“Is it?”

“Masterful comeback. I’m cut to the core.”

Bylead swipes at her ankles with the back of a dagger as she hefts herself over onto a rock ledge and she kicks at him in retaliation. Kicks up a spray of rock when he dodges her foot and he throws a spark of lightning at her that spirals around her ankles and snaps at her skin. 

“Impressive,” she remarks with some measure of interest and then looks out over the valley, “Unlike this. Nothing but empty land and rock.”

Bylead wouldn’t call it that. 

“It’s a nice view,” Bylead offers and Byleth makes a face.

“It’s ugly,” she mutters, her voice going distant, “Probably would have been pretty a long time ago.”

_“It was,” _Sothis nods as she returns to them, her face twisted as she paces a loose circle around them, _“So many years ago. The land was green and fertile. The valley children would sing and it sounded better than any of the cathedral choirs. Rang out over the mountains, caught by the winds, and pushed to the ocean. The skies full of –“_

She draws a blank and shakes her head, saying firmly,_ “A happier time.”_

“What’s she saying?” Byleth asks, following Bylead’s gaze. 

She steps up to Sothis, walking forward with one arm outstretched. Bylead bites his lip and says nothing when she swings her hand through Sothis’ face, the touch making his stomach flip. Sothis hisses like a cat and backs away. 

_“Please!” _Sothis says, kicking into the air even though Byleth freezes and does not attempt to touch her again. Frowning at the two of them, Sothis folds her arms and turns her nose up, _“I am trying to concentrate,_ children._”_

Byleth rolls her eyes when Bylead translates, a twitch in her eye at the ‘children’ remark before she sniffs, “Learn not to be so easily distracted, brat.”

_“Brat?! I’ll have you know, I am thousands, if not _eons _older than you."_

Maybe, Bylead notes.

_"Maybe –__ ugh, no __I _**must** _be older than some quibbling child snapping at my heels.”_

“Is she yelling?” Byleth snorts, gleaning the answer from Bylead’s face, “What a brat.”

_“Why you inconceivably rude little –“_

Bylead politely does not convey the rest of her words, ignoring the ensuing argument that sparks between them despite the fact that Byleth cannot hear Sothis’ shouts. He leaves them behind, passing crumbling statues and half faces. A broken face peeks up at him from the ground, the statue resembling something human but not quite, its features were too long and almost lizard-like. 

_“Ooooh! You impudent little pest!” _Sothis shouts as she storms up beside Bylead, stamping her feet as she marches ahead towards a wasteland of what looked to be broken buildings and half-destroyed homes.

Byleth’s look of amusement falters as she takes in the space.

Something familiar tugs at Bylead from Sothis’ end of their connection, something caught in fog and receding quickly as she reaches for it.

_“That structure…”_

“That building,” Byleth says at the same time. 

They point to one long wall leaning heavily against another. At the very base, there was a clean marked square in which overgrown plants had dug their roots into, intent on overwhelming the crumbling border that kept them trapped.

“_This feels familiar. I seem to recall something here. I cannot see it. But I feel it,” _Sothis says in a dreamy voice, as if she were shaking off the last of her slumber still, caught deep in memories she cannot fully grasp, _“Something I lost here.”_

“Do you smell something?” Byleth asks. 

Bylead whiffs the air. Dust and old rock. And plant life if he loops closer to the building. 

“Smells like the rotting leaves picked from a roof and thrown into a fire,” Byleth says. Her hand drops to her sword and she takes a deliberate step back from the shadows of the wall, “And metal.”

At her words, Bylead feels a little thrum of discomfort from Sothis’ side. Something old and familiar rising to the surface. Memories good and bad twisting into one another like braids, too blurred to understand, leaving them both with nothing but a swooping unease. 

_“I once called this home,” _Sothis says, _“Of that I am certain. I raised children here. And this was where I …”_

The memories stop. Familiarity bleeds cold and whatever tendrils she’d grasped falls away from them both. Sothis looks blankly at the wall, her face troubled as she touches the stone, trailing her fingers downwards and grimacing at the wet moss growing at the base as if she could feel it. 

Byleth flinches hard when Sothis settles down on her knees, the slightest hitch in her breathing betraying her discomfort. Byleth’s armor grinds as she grips the Sword of the Creator and the center hollow burns red. 

“There’s nothing here,” Byleth says tightly, uncommon strain in her voice, barely controlled. 

“You look like a goose has walked over your grave,” Bylead says, borrowing one of father’s many quips, his own pulse racing as he watches his sister. 

Byleth doesn’t smile, her eyes somber as if that were indeed the case and turns on her heels.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait - Byleth, she’s remembering –“

“Now.”

_“No,” _Sothis says with a little pound of her fist as she crawls along the ground. Beneath the wall she appears so much smaller as she follows an invisible trail, _“There is something here. I am certain of it – I must find it. It belongs to –“_

Sothis dives into the mass of the greenery, her fingers going right through the dirt. She turns pleading eyes on Bylead.

“Bylead.”

The back of his neck prickles under Byleth’s rough bark of command, years of moving at her call and providing her back up twitching his fingers but he shakes it off. He sets his jaw against her frustrated growl as he presses his fingers where Sothis had tried to dig. He yanks plants aside in great clumps, breaking the first layer with his fingers and then going for his knife when he’s stymied by densely packed dirt. He manages to slide his dagger in when Byleth yanks him backward. 

“Stop!” the word is sharp and mangled as she tears him aside.

Her touch is rougher than anything she’d tried in a training battle. She rips him from the ground as if attempting to break him in half, swinging him aside so forcefully he cries out at the responding pang in his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he hears her swear around the ringing in his ears, feels her drop to her knee before him, her hands trembling over his shoulder.

He can feel the quick trip of her pulse when she touches him.

“Sorry,” she breathes and he shoves away from her. 

He sees her entire form tense as the move puts him closer to Sothis.

“Don’t touch it,” she says. 

“Why?”

“Just don’t touch it,” she snaps at him and he bristles.

“I’m not a child for you to order around, Byleth,” he says, the words more belligerent than he’d meant them to sound, growing more irate when she only shakes her head, “I’m not one of your students.”

“I never said you were.” 

Dismissively spoken and it makes his blood boil.

“Then don’t order me about as you would your quibbling brats who are barely capable of holding their weapons,” he snarls, the words coming urgent and angry.

“I do not –“

“I’ve been by your side longer than anyone. Much longer than that leader of your playing as your shadow,” he says, unable to stop the bright slash of hurt in his voice as the words pour from him, caught on his first snipe and dragged out from the core of him, “We picked up blades together and we learned to survive together. I walked out from that forest supporting _you_ not the other way around. So stop _dismissing _me.”

Byleth stares at him, shock he’s never seen before on her face, struggling to comprehend, “I have never –“

“I hate you lying to me,” Bylead breathes out, “I hate that you think I’m naive enough to fall for it. I hate that it matters so little to you, you cannot possibly think what I might be referring to. I hate that you and father leave me behind and I _hate _that you won’t tell me what happened in Gaspard!”

The air goes out between them like the thick pull of Solon’s spell. An abrupt rip and tear as Bylead comes back to himself, guilt a block in his throat as he thinks over his words and judges them too harsh and yet not harsh enough. 

Byleth stares at him in silence, surprise and vulnerability painted over with understanding.

“You’re still thinking of that,” she observes with a forced calm that makes him bristle and shove away from her petulantly.

He grits his teeth, walking back to his half-dug hole and it looks silly now that that half disturbed clump of dirt had stirred his anger. He tries not to feel like the boy that’d stormed away from their camp that night in the forest after discovering her first kill. He doesn’t succeed. 

Sothis looks at the two of them, eyes wide with concern, and she backs quickly aside as Bylead drops to his knees again. He ignores them both, prying at the place he’d dug with a dagger again, needing something to busy his hands.

“Lonato escaped somehow. I think,” Byleth says quietly like a confession. 

Byleth sighs as she sets herself down against him, jostling him from his place as she sits. She drops an arm against the back of his neck, leaning her weight into him.

“We think he’s alive; not enough to tell Ashe. We think father had a hand in it but he won’t tell me,” Byleth says, “Just like he won’t tell me what’s going on with the Church.”

Bylead looks at her blandly, the irony not escaping him and she shoves at him for it. 

“I get it, you brat,” she says and then more seriously, “And I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apology,” Bylead says, “Only your promise. Don’t leave me behind again.”

Byleth dips her head.

“_Byleth_. I don’t … I cannot bear losing a sibling the way Sylvain can," he looks down, picking at the ground, "I don't want to come upon you as I did in the Mausoleum either."  


Silence and then she drapes an arm over his shoulder, squeezing gently, her touch warm where Miklan’s teeth had been.

“Fine. So long as you don’t go disappearing on your own either,” she taps his arm in reminder. 

“We watch each other’s backs,” he says with a firm nod, “As we’ve always done.”

He feels her shoulders go loose, feels the tension drain from him in kind. Bylead releases a breath long-held as they sit in simple silence.

“As we’ve always done,” Byleth repeats after a long moment and then rises. She reaches for her sword as she stands over the hole in the ground. She flashes him a teasing look that’s strained at the edges as the Sword of the Creator glows red, “If I turn –“

The Pulse twitches Bylead’s fingers and he nods at her.

The sword sings on her swing. The blade shudders with a ghostly cry as an eerie red glow sweeps over the length of it, the sound pitching like a gale wind as her sword soars downwards, carving into earth as it would air, slicing one clean gape into plant growth and dirt, gliding into place and ripping through to – 

“It’s stuck,” Byleth says, her arm jerking to a halt.

She blinks at her blade, expression pinched and stupefied. So hilariously misplaced on her face, Bylead cannot help the laugh that escapes his lips.

_“Honestly, what on earth did you expect?!” _Sothis blurts out after a moment of incredulity, her mouth twitching with disbelief as she, too, stifles a little laugh against her hand. 

“Shut it,” Byleth says and after a moment, frowning at a blank space that is not at all where Sothis was standing, “Both of you.”

The muscles of her arms bunch as she tugs, armor grinding and –

That hadn’t been her armor.

Bylead leaps back as his sister does and the ground beneath them disappears. 

Dirt and rock split apart as a cavernous gape opens up beneath them, swallowing away everything above it. Plants and dirt and even Byleth's sword spill over the widening gape, fodder for an awakening beast. 

Something dark rises to the surface, the shape and size of it like the Black Beast but not. Byleth grabs for his arm, reeling him backward as too long limbs grope for the edge. His foot kicks against one enormous knuckle as he staggers and he feels the weight of the thing's attention like a physical thing.

A ringing echoes from the gape in the ground like the sound of two blades grinding against one another.  


A face looms over them, a massive mask painted like a serene nun, the Sword of the Creator caught in the very core of its head. The red in it has burnt out. Byleth reaches for it –

_“Don’t!” _

Sothis and Bylead shout at her in one voice but as her fingertips graze the hilt of her sword, the creature shrieks to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sothis: seem to recall something here. i cannot see it ... but i feel it ...  
byleth: git gud lol
> 
> next chap might be delayed as i really wanna write for claudeth week (esp after missing felileth week completely ;o;) - still on the fence though since i really want to get to the next arc with this so tbd for now


	27. White Clouds: Broken Plans

“It seems we are lost,” Edelgard pronounces with the air of an Imperial judge. 

“Nope,” Claude says just to see the grind of her teeth and the twitch in her eye.

She stifles her retort and raises an eyebrow at him. No doubt mentally berating him for being a prat. 

“Lost implies we had a specific destination. As two people cannot be a place, we are not lost.”

Edelgard’s lips thin and she shakes her head, a princess through and through, unwilling to entertain fools. She folds her arms, looking out across the open valley as if she expects the two Professors to appear simply because she has willed it so.

“I’d prefer you argue semantics after we find the Professors,” Hilda says and trips over a rock. 

Claude wonders if the misstep was real. 

“Hilda, are you alright?”

His suspicions are confirmed when Hilda curls into Dimitri’s arms with a little hesitant nod.

“I should’ve known better than to come,” Hilda says with a little sigh. She bites her lip and casts the prince a sidelong glance, “Sorry, my constitution’s always been weak … I should’ve known better than to try and tag along.”

“You can borrow my shoulder, Hilda,” Dimitri offers. 

The ever gallant Prince of Faerghus. 

Claude hides a knowing smile as he clambers up a rock formation, away from them. He breathes in deep, enjoying the higher vantage point. 

They really should’ve ridden wyverns here instead of horses but he’d been unsuccessful in prying them out of the hands of the stable masters. Evidently, only the Prince of Faerghus and her Imperial Highness could sweeten (Dimitri) and demand (Edelgard) service from the Church. And the Fodlan born did so love their horses. 

He heaves a sigh as he looks out into the distance.

A wyvern takes off from the mountain edge, crying loud enough for them to hear. A fledgling’s first flight. He watches her drift slowly away from the cliffs. She returns to her nest after each careful loop, training confidence into herself as she tests the limits of her capabilities.

Claude swallows back a moment of homesickness, ignoring the quiet rumble of voices below him. 

His attention is caught by the mid-noon sun cresting the mountain edges and the familiar cries of other wyverns joining the first.

In Almyra, he would have been training his own mount this time of year. Back during the Great Tree Moon, his father would have led him to the cliff edge and lowered him on a bit of rope to steal a hatchling from its nest. Instead, he had been fleeing bandits in a Fodlan forest. 

And instead of taking his first flight this moon, he’d been responsible for quelling rebellions in a land not truly his own. 

Not that Almyra had ever truly been his. 

As much as he’d wanted it to be, his cousins had worn the difference between them into his skin with swift brutality and it had sent him west, chasing after a foolish dream and silly legend. 

Something flares in the distance like a thief’s signal. Subtle and kept to the ground but he recognizes the hellish red of the Sword of the Creator anywhere. He straightens, watching with a little quiver of unease, as a dark shape lurches up from the ground with a puppet-like jerk of too-long limbs. The sword beams at him from the object’s head, glowing bright and then vanishing.

He holds out a hand against the horizon, measuring the distance with his fingers and memorizing the path forward. When the shriek hits him, he’s already down from his vantage point.

“Perhaps you should stay here,” Hubert was saying with that small mean smile and silk smooth purr. Dripping with barely concealed threat, “For your constitution of course. You can keep the carrion beasts company.”

“Hubert,” Edelgard admonishes without much heat. 

“Ugh,” Hilda says at the same time, wrinkling her nose in distaste, “What an unpleasant little fellow you are.”

“There was a sound,” Dedue says just as Claude lands in front of them, a little furrow of concern in his brow, “It did not sound like an animal.”

“Right you are,” Claud announces with a little smile, “Time for us to swoop to dear old Teach’s rescue.”

“What?!” Dimitri asks, immediately alert. He reaches out as if to grab but Claude is already half gone and feels only the lightest brush of Dimitri’s gauntlets on his upper arm. 

“C’mon, pick it up a little,” Claude calls back, his voice light as he outpaces them as easily as he’d done back in Remire.

And as they had before, Dimitri and Edelgard stifle their cries of alarm and take after him, footsteps picking up to match his. This time accompanied by three more. 

* * *

Sothis shivers beneath the looming shadow of the golem, cringing despite her lack of form when it swings at her. The hand passes through her belly and she feels her gorge rise. 

She is faintly aware of the golem clawing at Byleth’s chest, glimpses the creature snatching Byleth up like a ragdoll and throwing her into the air. From Bylead’s side, the memory of the Mausoleum floats up. Memories of a time that did not come to pass racing through both their heads. 

Images of his sister broken in so many ways. 

Sothis has seen it all before.

All her children had been –

She groans, grabbing her forehead, head throbbing beneath the onslaught of messy thoughts and half-shaped memories. 

Yes, she’s had children before. She had raised them here … in the Red Canyon – no, it had not been called that long ago. Because the valley had not yet been painted red. Because – because –

She turns tired eyes on the golem, watches it emerge fully from the hole in the ground. It should have remained dead and buried. A relic of a time long past that had no place here. The serene mask twists towards Sothis and it is so like the smooth top of a coffin she cringes beneath it, feeling goosebumps break over her skin.

Yes, it should’ve remained buried.

Zanado was never meant to be a place for ghosts. The homes were made for the living, not meant to be empty coffers for the dead. A part of her wants to cry out in grief, mourn the hollow grave Zanado had become, with its slinking beasts and hidden monstrosities. It had turned into a war ground and she had never liked battle.

“Sothis,” Bylead yanks her back into his body and she watches through his eyes as the two children run into the fight. 

Precocious children. Battle-forged. 

Sothis had never been that way. Could not bear blood even when she had a form other than this. When she had been larger. Fuller. As tall as the golem if not taller. When she had been a beast and monster in her own right. Brimming with life instead of this shell she had been broken into.

The thought ends there. One of many half-fragments. Those half there and half not memories that drift away from her fingertips whenever she stretched a hand towards them and made her terribly weary whenever she chased them. 

Bylead roars as he slings his new spell, closing his fist around magic and twisting the air above the creature’s shoulder joint. It crumbles and twists inwards, magic erupting powerfully enough the creature spins aside. Byleth lurches forward, stealing a dagger from her brother's hidden pocket. She holds it between her teeth as she grabs for a flailing arm and leverages herself upward.

She slams the dagger into the chest as a foothold. Uses it to propel herself towards the sword in the creature’s head. Her hands come just close enough to brush the handle before the creature slaps her down with impunity. Bylead lunges to catch her, the two of them toppling into the ground hard. 

Byleth recovers first - so like the eldest sibling, Sothis’ own had been the same way - a snarl turning her mouth as the Crest of Flames bleeds over her body, flames roiling over her scratches and cuts. Healing them all. Fire twists at the corner of her mouth like a fledgling dragon teething –

Sothis remembers wiping away molten drool from a nursing babe. Tweaking that tiny snout as her eldest daughter scrunches her face and starts to cry. 

_“Little wyvern child. Did I pick you up from a nest somewhere? Dragons do not drool and cry like this.”_

She’d done that around here, somewhere in the midst of this broken home. Had felt such joy when her first was born.

The Crest of Flames blooms over them as Byleth rises over her brother to grab for the creature’s widespread claws. Her arms tremble with effort as she holds the digits apart. The heat of her crest simmers and then erupts as if she’d doused it with ale, golden orange as it blossoms over their heads. The heat of a familiar sun, a warmth that’d spread over these lands once and gifted life –

Sothis aches with the memory, her chest thudding oddly. Her head pounds in the same way as the flames steal the water from her lungs and turn her breath jagged.

Byleth strains beneath the creature’s weight and with her struggle, the crest twists. Morphing into something else. Something unfamiliar.

The golden mark bleeds black and purple, edges bleeding away into unrefined lines as Byleth seizes the creature’s wrist, her fingers digging deep gouges into the metal for a handhold. Her breath rasps harshly over them all, mouth turned in a growl, and with one decisive move, _rips_ the entirety of the arm from the creature’s shoulders. 

Something ghastly pulls over her face.

Another figure.

Another familiar ghost. 

Haunting and weak.

It overlaps Byleth’s face for a too-long second, watching Sothis with baleful eyes. Seeing into the depths of her.  


“Byleth, the chest! There’s something in it,” Bylead tugs at his sister’s coat and she darts a little ways away before looping back.

The face that’d appeared over her vanishes and Sothis blinks, unable to recall the last few seconds. 

“Give me a boost!” Byleth shouts, providing the instruction needlessly.

Her brother has already dropped to a knee, both hands together, palm out. 

_“Throw me, Seiros!”_

Sothis’ eldest had been born as a dragon. As if she’d been eager to greet the world with sparking flames. Just like the twins, she’d been a precocious child. One who learned easily from watching the world around her and picked up the worst habits if not carefully watched. A daughter whose greatest sin was pride.

Sothis had mourned her here. 

In silence, Sothis steps away from her charge, ignoring the two children engaged in battle behind her as she drifts down into the ground the creature had crept from. They didn’t need her. None of them did. 

It feels cold here, in the dark, but familiar. The earth soothing, calling to her like a bed after a long day, bidding her to take her rest. 

She’d grieved Seiros here. Or Seiros had – 

The half-thought flutters away as she walks, the memory like a cloak snared on a forest branch, floating far away as she comes upon a set of bones. They are only a handful of them, nowhere near enough to form a full human. Neither skull nor body. The pieces are mere fragments. Perhaps that had been a knee once. A finger joint. A foot. The other pieces had been taken. Stolen away and refashioned.

She leans over the bones, wanting to run her hands through the pile. To splinter the neat stack of them. 

Whoever had buried them had been careful.

She wishes they had not spent the time. It would have been best not to wallow in grief.

“Sothis!” Byleth calls for her and she lets him pull her away. 

She had no more to offer Zanado and it had nothing more to offer her. 

* * *

“Teach!” Claude greets her by firing an arrow into the  <strike>monster creature</strike> golem as it slams her into a crumbling wall. 

His arrow pings off the mask uselessly. The damned training bows aren’t nearly strong enough for him to pull back as far as he really wants to. Good enough for a child’s first bow and nothing more. He stifles his annoyance, aiming for the joints of the golem, firing a series of arrows into one crumbling arm. Byleth slips out from the golem’s hold, darting between its legs to yank her brother away from the hole it’d obviously crept from.

Claude fires again when the golem raises its arm, ready to hurl it down. The movement combined with Claude’s arrow dislodges the last piece holding arm to shoulder. The golem moans when its arm drops uselessly to the ground. Claude slots four more arrows into the base of the creature’s neck when it tries to turn, halting its moves for a few precious seconds. Just enough time for the Professors to escape from beneath it.

Byleth is bruised. as always. Her shirt is torn, a bloody gash over her chest and there is a second cut over her forehead. She storms towards him, radiating fight so intently Claude stills in place, unable to move. A little cold shiver of dread drips down the back of his neck. Fight or flight stirring in his bones. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be hunted by the Ashen Demon. 

“Borrowing this,” Byleth says and he blinks, not comprehending.

Claude stumbles as she tears the golden cloak from his shoulder, practically toppling into her. With a little huff, she sets him upright and turns away, wiping at her forehead with the borrowed fabric. It’s so absurd he nearly laughs. Not for the first time he think she’d thrive in an Almyran court. Or, at the very least, on an Almyran training ground. 

“Edelgard!” Byleth calls and the princess runs up like a soldier ready for orders, “Take the legs out.”

Shadows lurch over them all and Claude glances up to see carrion eaters circling, waiting for bloodshed and death.

“How ominous,” Hubert says with a little smile and then to Hilda, “But you must be pleased. Your friends have found you.”

He really was finding too much glee in the sinister persona he’d cultivated. 

Hilda sticks her tongue out at him behind his back and then launches her axe into the golem’s head. It stumbles back some ways, uttering a low groaning moan. The arrows Claude had hurled into its neck have been mostly broken, but it still cannot really move its neck. Has to turn its entire body to track Teach when she darts right. In opposition, Edelgard charges left, her axe whistling as it cleaves through the leg. Easy as carving butter. The creature shrieks and totters heavily. 

Miasma screams by Claude’s ear as Hubert loosens the spell. It writhes in the air like a feral dog and then rips into the creature’s side, sending it back away from Edelgard. The golem slams into the ground. Starts to scream and then thrash like a man caught in death throes. It shrieks as Teach reaches for the sword, beating its forehead against the ground. Claude grimaces at the treatment of the Sword of the Creator, spying pieces of the handle chipping away in the ground, scratches bleeding out on the surface of the blade.

“The chest,” Claude hears Byleth say. 

And indeed, there’s something there.

A crystal glimmers at them, reflecting the sunlight dully and Claude –

Claude stumbles, arrow falling to the dirt as someone shoves at him from behind. He hears Banshee shriek over his head, kicking up a fierce wind on its tails that snap at his braid. 

“Pardon,” Dedue grinds out from beneath the weight of the great bird above his shoulders. He’s holding it at bay with his shield but is struggling to keep his weight off Claude. 

“Aw, no need for that buddy,” Claude manages a smile, trying to resist the panicked urge to go after the sword.

He grunts when a wingtip smacks his face and ducks low behind Dedue’s shoulders, firing an arrow for the bird's throat. 

Again, it doesn’t pierce as deeply as he’d like, arrowhead catching in the roof of the creature’s mouth. The pain makes it meaner. Louder. Powerful wings kick up more dirt and gravel, dragging up pieces of rock and debris, stinging Claude’s eyes as he releases another arrow.

Poisoned this time. 

Flying on his impatience. 

The arrow sinks into the creature’s eye with a wet sound and the poison takes root at once, painting the red veins black as it eats into the brain. Three more and the thing dies with a silent wail, mighty head crashing to dirt over Dedue’s shoulders.

Now for the sword – 

_CRACK!_

Claude whips his head around in time to see a piece of the Sword of the Creator fly pass him as the golem slams its head down to earth for the last time. 

_Fuck._

The broken handle spins along the ground, coming to rest at Bylead’s feet. The Professor doesn’t notice, one hand on Dimitri’s back - oh, that’s where he got off to. Dimitri does not notice either, his stance protective between his Professor and a dead wolf, painted to his elbows in blood. 

“Professor, are you alright?” from hunting hound to puppy dog. The prince extends a hand out to Bylead and then blushes prettily when it’s taken.

Claude swipes the sword handle from between them, leaving the prince to his terrible courtship ways.

“Lose this, Teach?” he asks with a fake grin, heart pounding at the sight of the blade so easily splintered.

He’d never been a firm believer in gods and legends but this … 

This was disappointing. 

Byleth doesn’t reply for a long moment, grunting as she rips the golem’s mask in two with her bare hands. Claude flinches at the sight of metal digging into her palm but the Crest of Flames swallows away the worst of her injuries. A weapon in her own right. Claude stares openly at the bare expanse of one upper arm, watching the slow ripple of her shoulder muscles and bicep working to extract the rest of her sword, dimming his eyes only when she turns to face him.

She glances at him with one eye, the other closed beneath the sluggish drip of blood from her forehead. 

“Oh, poor Teach,” he says, taking his cloak from her shoulder to wad up and hold to her forehead, blotting away the worse of the cut.

“Professor, this was what you were looking for?” Edelgard approaches them, hands curved around a crystal, and then goes still, eye wide as she looks at the broken sword, “Oh dear.”

“Such mistreatment,” Hubert chastises, still looking as if he were very much amused by the situation, “Perhaps that is why we endeavor to keep fine weapons from the hands of commoners.”

“Maybe,” Byleth says, not rising to the bait. She looks at the half sword at her hand, jaw twitching. Claude’s still not capable of parsing out all her emotions but he remembers their conversation in the forest, when he’d been snared by her trap, and wonders if she was enjoying the sight of it broken.

“It can probably be fixed,” Claude says, “Reforged. Rhea would know.”

It’s only because he’s watching her so closely that he notices the tension creeping over her shoulders.

“Maybe,” Byleth says, then hands him her broken end to wrap away and stow in his quiver. Byleth fixes Hubert with a critical look, “You should’ve aimed for the bird going for Dedue.”

“Oh? Was there a bird? My apologies,” Hubert says, affecting a bow towards Dedue who looks uncomfortable with the attention, before turning back to Byleth, eyebrow raised in a silent, “_Satisfied?_”

“I don’t really care how you act when you’re in your separate classes or on your individual missions,” Byleth says and there’s a track of annoyance in her voice, not the typical grievance for their classroom antics but something more ingrained. Near fury, “Or when you’re back in your own countries plotting warfare.”

Edelgard flinches, no doubt uncomfortable with the growing lecture. Dimly, Claude wonders when she’d last been on the receiving end of one.

“But on my missions, you look out for one another.”

“What a noble mindset for a mercenary.”

“It’s not for noble reasons,” Byleth says, her upper lip pulling in a snarl, like a wolf baring fang, “It’s simple logic. If you want to watch your own back, so be it. The mercs will remember for next time.”

The subtle threat shades Hubert’s smile closer to a real one, the edges of his mouth losing that tight grimace as he eyes Byleth. It’s a closest Claude has seen to approval. He’s certain he’ll never see anything more.

“I will keep the lesson in mind, Professor.”

Byleth doesn’t respond, only fixes him with one more look before she plucks the stone from Edelgard’s hand. 

“Thanks,” she says.

“It looks to be an arcane crystal,” Edelgard says, angling her body as if intent on keeping conversation between only her and the Professor. A perfectly studious pupil to Byleth’s lesson. As if she were preparing herself to make another bid for Byleth’s attention. 

Byleth’s first day and the training ground duel had not been so long ago. Claude wonders if Edelgard had forgotten the result or simply chose not to see. 

Ah, Imperial greed. 

“I’m not a smith,” Byleth says, turning the piece in her hands. 

“Give it here,” Claude holds back a smug smile when she does. 

It doesn’t feel like anything he’s held before. The crystal maintains its shape until he squeezes and then the hard surface yields beneath his fingers like gelatin up to a certain point where it refuses to cave. Arcane definitely, but there was no glyph on it as far as he can tell. Nothing shines through as he holds it to sunlight or tries to push what minuscule magic he had into it. 

He licks it, grimacing when he tastes rough iron. As if he is licking rust from a sword.

“What?” he asks, catching the ripple of disgust that runs through Edelgard and Hubert.

Even Dedue twitches, one hand raised as if about to snatch it from him.

“What’s it taste like?” Byleth is the only one who doesn’t react, only crosses her arms, expression demanding an answer.

“Just iron,” he says, “But it’s definitely not iron.”

A snort.

“Hey, I’m not a smith either, Teach.”

“Can I see?” Bylead’s voice is soft in Claude’s ear.

“Be my guest.”

Bylead doesn’t respond to Claude’s wink, dismissing as his sister would. Claude looks between the two of them, teasing out idle comparisons as the Professor toys with the crystal. Bylead’s mouth sets in a little pout as he focuses. The expression is strikingly dissimilar from his sister, whose focused narrowed in rough grimaces and surly –

Claude yelps, grabbing his ears as something cracks with the sound of thunder. It erupts from the crystal along with a blurt of magic rippling outwards that sends him toppling and the others to their knees. 

“Probably a Hanneman question then," Byleth snaps the object from her brother’s hand, whip quick, as Dimitri catches Bylead in his arms.

Claude whistles and the prince immediately sets Bylead upright before tucking his hands behind his back.

“So I guess you weren’t farming these crystals. Why were you both out here anyways? Much as I like aimlessly wandering, nothing’s worth getting yourself almost killed,” Claude says, tilting his head at the felled golem.

“We weren’t almost killed.”

“Oh ho?” Claude bumps Byleth’s arm with an elbow, “If my memory is correct, your gallant house leader swooped in right in the nick of time to save your neck.”

“Really. I remember differently.”

“Do enlighten me.”

“I remember Edelgard taking the thing to ground,” Byleth says, turning to the princess, fingers gentle as she ruffles Edelgard’s hair and the princess goes bright red, blinking rapidly in astonishment, “Well done by the way.”

Claude affects a pout at Byleth.

“The better question is, what are you children doing out here?”

“Dimitri here was in a state over his dearest Professor,” Hilda says, grinning at Dimitri’s sputtered denial. She folds her arms, a look of satisfaction curling her mouth before she looks at Claude, eyes dropping to his pocket and ah –

Dimitri had been the one to interrupt her investigation. 

How mean. 

Claude smiles reflexively back at her. Doesn’t allow his hand to drop to the vial hidden away in his pockets. Refusing to acknowledge as he focuses his attention on the Professors. 

“There’s no need to worry about me,” Bylead says, a little wrinkle between his brow, as if he could not fathom being fretted over. As if only Byleth and Jeralt had that right. 

“I always worry,” Dimitri bites his tongue, ducking his face when they all stare at him, “About everyone in the Blue Lions. As house leader.”

“Only as house leader?” if Claude didn’t know better that was a vicious tease on Byleth’s lip, well hidden beneath her typical stoicism and he files away the subtle hints to that expression, adding it to the running catalog of her tells. 

“The Professor is near enough in age, I would have thought you saw enough of him to consider him a friend, Dimitri,” Edelgard hides a smile behind one white glove, eyes bright with uncommon amusement, “If not more …”

“More –?!” Dimitri chokes on the word, face going scarlet.

“Y’know, I remember Flayn saying Seteth met his wife in Church. Led her in choir practice,” Hilda says, touching a finger to her chin in thought, “Hmmm, he could’ve been her teacher. So he’d hardly be one to protest if there were - oh, let’s say a _development _–“

“Development,” Dimitri repeats, sounding faint, looking between the group of them like a hunted deer.

“The Church has never been one to deny the King of Faerghus much,” Hubert says, turning the tease too mean with his mocking tone. He fixes Dimitri with a calculating gaze, a droll smile on his mouth, “With Duke Rufus leading the country now … such a _scandal _would be worth no more than a week’s gossip.”

Dimitri blinks at them, stricken, and Hilda jabs at Hubert with an elbow, earning a fierce glower.

“Scandal if he’s playing around,” Hilda says, folding her arms, “This would be seen as a love story.”

“Student and mentor,” Edelgard agrees, looking thoughtful for a moment. Her eyes drift to Byleth before she corrects herself quickly. 

Oh ho.

“There’s more than one Mittelfrank Opera on the subject. Perhaps we can ask Dorothea to elaborate when we return," Edelgard says. 

“Oh, I knew I would’ve liked you as a house leader,” Hilda says.

Which – hey, now –

Claude pouts at her as Byleth looks at them both in amusement, his mouth creeping towards a frown as Edelgard smiles prettily at Byleth’s attention. 

As if Claude had not stolen Byleth from her once already, on her first day in Garreg Mach –

He blinks at his own thoughts, wondering at the little pitter of childish petulance. As if he were an Almyran nobody once again, clinging to a flimsy title, running through the halls desperate to draw notice to himself. In need of companionship.

He scratches his head on a too loud sigh, hand bumping the broken sword.

Right. He’d not come for companionship. Had learned as a child to keep his mouth shut and his trust to himself. He’d come for the Sword. Nothing more. 

He feels the uneven edge of the blade, wondering briefly what it’d be like to return to Almyra now. With nothing to show for his efforts but a broken blade. Nothing to show but failure. He fixes his smile when he sees Byleth watching him. Holds it on his face like a shield. 

“What are you talking about?” Bylead asks, tilting his head.

At his side, Byleth turns her face, looking away from them all. Hiding her expression. Laughing or rolling her eyes?

It wasn’t fair for her to see Claude’s thoughts without offering the same. 

“Oh, I’m happy to explain,” Hilda says, blocking Claude’s path to Byleth. Hilda takes Bylead’s hands with a downright wicked smile.

“P-please don’t,” Dimitri says weakly, really sounding as if he might faint here and now.

“Apologies for interrupting this joyous victory,” Dedue interrupts before more can be said, eyes solemn as he addresses Bylead, “I asked his Highness to come; I have a favor to ask.”

"Oh, Dedue," Hilda sighs.

Dimitri’s discomfort evaporates, expression growing stern as he stiffens, “Yes, of course. Apologies for interrupting this … victory; but, Professor, we had a favor. There’s been an uprising in the Duscar region. In the western part of the Kingdom.”

As if cold water has been thrown over a campfire, the cheer vanishes. 

Edelgard stiffens as does Hilda. 

“There are people still in Duscar?” Edelgard asks.

Dedue shakes his head, “The land was burned to ashes by the army of Faerghus. All the people were slaughtered. This was our punishment for our crime.” 

Dimitri utters a low sigh but offers no verbal opinion on the matter. No doubt cautious in the face of the other house leaders. Claude remembers reading the reports on Duscar. There was not a soul in Fodlan who didn’t know of the tragedy. But, Claude notes, recalling Goucester’s report of it, there was a clear discrepancy as to what the tragedy referred to. 

The king’s death. 

Or the genocide of a people.

Claude wonders where their Highnesses stood.

“The barren expanse that was once Duscar is now controlled by a Kingdom noble,” Dedue continues, “But Duscar survivors –“

_Including himself_, Claude adds for him.

“Still exist outside the region. This uprising was, no doubt, started by survivors seeking to reclaim their homeland.”

“I’m not interested in fighting a war,” Byleth says, “Anything between crown and –“

“We’ve always heard out a mission before deciding,” Bylead says, earning a look of disapproval from his sister.

Claude remembers Bylead had been the one to suggest bringing Ashe to Gaspard and he leans on his heels, watching the silent argument fly between them. 

“A request for aid was sent from Viscount Kleiman to the Kingdom capital and church. He is the one who rules over the region at present. The lands around Duscar have also volunteered troops to suppress the uprising.”

“So sounds like you have enough men.”

Bylead touches his sisters arm, a little flick to the back of her elbow. Between different siblings, Claude has no doubt the move would’ve been a pinch. 

“Yes, indeed. They have sufficient troops and strong ones at that,” Dimitri says, “My worry is that there will be more unwarranted death.”

“For the people of Duscar,” Edelgard says slowly. It’s impossible to tell what she is thinking.

Dimitri bows his head, biting his lip for a moment before he straightens, “There have always been many in the Kingdom army who believe the people of Duscar our foes and hate them for it. I’m afraid this uprising will be an excuse to act on it…”

Ah, there truly was no difference between countries. Claude whistles as he leans back on his heels. Recalling the Almyra court and his boyhood days learning to twist the truth around his cousins. They’d always found an excuse no matter how many clever words he’d offered in his place, always too eager to spill the filthy half-blood in his veins.

“If the Kingdom’s army and the rebel forces of Duscar collide, there is no doubt that the rebel forces will be annihilated.”

“If we go as a group …” Edelgard shakes her head, “We will have to disguise Claude and myself.”

“Oh. Edelgard, I could never ask you two to lend a hand in such matters.”

“No,” she says, her expression turning pensive, “No .. you haven’t, but …”

“N –“ Byleth begins. 

“We’ll go,” Bylead interrupts his sister, turning to the others, full of shocking earnestness uncommon for a mercenary, “We have enough people here for a quick mission.”

He turns to his sister and another argument passes through them.

“Bringing a class would be too many people for something like this. We can go as is. Disguises would be necessary regardless,” Bylead says quietly and his sister lets out a slow sigh, “Byleth.”

He fits something in her name, stressing the vowels and letting rare impatience bleed through. And as she had done with Gaspard, Byleth relents. Not willing to fight a war. Unless her brother asked. 

“If you’re all willing.”

“I am,” Edelgard says, her expression fiercely determined. 

“Lady Edelgard,” dripping with disapproval.

“We’re going Hubert,” Edelgard says, not bothering to look back at her vassal and the man bows, his expression placidly calm and unreadable.

“Thank you, E– Edelgard,” Dimitri says, voice dripping with desperate gratitude. He looks to Claude and Hilda.

“Can’t exactly say no to people dying… ” Hilda whispers under her breath and Claude, hatefully, agrees.

He never did enjoy blood victories. 

"Fine, fine –" Claude says, slinging a companionable arm around Dimitri, "Say does that mean you owe me a favor? How nice for me to have earned a boon from the future King of Faerghus – don’t go forgetting this later down the road.”

“Of course, Claude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i love teasing dima, said everyone ever, it's so easy


	28. White Clouds: Loyalty and Vassals

“You certainly are an adaptable creature,” Edelgard says as she looks over Claude. She crosses her arms and frowns at him but it is without malice, “You could pass for any army, straddling the lines between enemies as you are. Free to choose your allegiance based on whimsy. How frightening.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Claude chuckles, pulling on Duscar robes above Kingdom armor, “I think you’ve grown up a bit too sheltered in those Imperial halls if this is what frightens you. Bit too accustomed to seeing enemies where there are none?”

To his surprise, Edelgard does not refute his statement.

She lowers her lashes, expression pensive, “Perhaps.”

“Oh?” Claude peeks out at her from the top he’s pulling on, “That was a quick agreement. What a fortuitous omen preceding our mission. As if the stars have aligned to bless me with your –“

“What exactly were you up to prior to Garreg Mach?”

“Ah, my Lady, you won’t be stealing my secrets with that alone,” he says, dancing away from the quick topic change. He pulls on the last arm guard and wiggles his brows at her, “But, as I’ve told everyone, you’re more than welcome to lay your hands on them. I’d let you seize my secrets willingly enough, so long as you offer yours first.”

A brief smile, “Secrets, huh? I’m afraid the price is too high for my taste. You see, in my sheltered halls, I’ve only encountered men willing to barter for coin.”

“Ah, so it’s a blessing you’ve met me then.”

She looks at him for a long time, a little smile twitching the corners of her mouth before she nods, “I can only hope it will be.”

“Is he flirting with you, Edelgard?” Hilda asks, pushing aside the curtains of their makeshift tent.

“My lady!” Claude gasps, touching a hand to his chest and hunching over as if he were caught in a state of undress, “I’m _indisposed_.”

Hilda makes a point of looking him over, gaze tracking over his arms and chest, slow and shameless with an air of haughty criticism. She turns her nose up at him. He pretends to be hurt, mouth twitching with laughter at her dismissal. 

“Lady Edelgard, Professor Bylead is about to depart,” Hubert bows before entering. 

He blinks at Edelgard’s borrowed Kingdom armor, a faint twitch to his lips, as if he could not decide if he found the scene utterly appalling or exceedingly amusing. He gives voice to neither, only bows his head over Edelgard’s guard, readjusting bits and pieces until the borrowed armor fits as if created for her. 

Such a dedicated vassal. 

“Satisfied, Hubert?” Edelgard asks, a little smile on her lips as she holds out a hand to him.

“You are faultless, as ever, Lady Edelgard.”

“Hm.”

Claude has the distinct sense he’s missed something.

“Then, let’s go greet Viscount Kleiman,” she says, holding a hand up.

Hubert twitches, displeasure turning the corners of his mouth rising too quick for even his fastidious control. He smothers it before it can linger, dark eyes sweeping the room. As if he intended to permanently silence anyone who caught the slip. 

Claude smiles reflexively, ignoring at the cold finger of dread that touches the back of his neck at Hubert’s dark stare. The refined iron of an assassin’s cool assessment. 

All of a sudden Claude is seven again, hiding beneath his sheets because he had heard something in the dark and understood, even as a child, that it was no silly monster but something much more real. 

Hubert dims his eyes as if he were nothing but a simple servant, capable of only tending to his royal guard. He bows to both Hilda and Claude before guiding Edelgard away. Claude only breathes when Hubert turns his back on them.

“Jeez,” Hilda sighs and shakes herself, “So hard to breathe around them.”

Claude hums an agreement and says nothing else, pushing away old night terrors to prod Hilda with an elbow. 

“Say, Hilda,” Claude says with the air of an Imperial noble (parfum de Ferdinand), “My armor’s a little loose too. Won’t you be a dear and give me a hand?”

“Oh, of course,” she chirps, offering him a too-low bow, exaggerated enough to be taken as an offense in any noble setting. 

She hops closer with a little spring in her step, tugging at bits of armor as she makes little clucking sounds with her tongue, playing up Hubert’s fretting to obscene levels. 

“My Lord,” she simpers, pulling his straps until the shoulder guard sits higher and better, “This would never do. You are our beloved heir. Such clumsiness –“

She punctuates with a yank of his chest plate, “Is unbecoming. You must be impeccable. Faultless. Appear the unblemished rose that you are.”

“Oh! Lady Goneril,” he laughs. She tugs up the Duscar robes so she can readjust the armor beneath, “Any excuse to get your hands on me, hm?”

“I’m only doing my duty, Lord Riegan,” she says on a little sigh, batting her lashes at him. 

Wait - where had that needle and thread come from? 

Dimly, he remembers Hilda enjoys little handicrafts and beading projects. She was never without a little sewing kit or beading set whenever she was bored in the classroom. He still yelps, flinching, as she places two pins in her mouth and yanks at his robes. With sharp precise movements, nothing at all like the flimsy attempts she made at her chores each time they were partnered, she readjusts his armor. She pierces new holes into the too-large straps so they settle more firmly against him. Pins the Duscar robes in places until they fit his shoulders and waist better and smooth down the bulky lines of the armor.

Her hands flit everywhere. Sharp and clinical as she seeks out – 

He yanks her hand away from his pocket but not fast enough.

Hilda twists out of his grip with a single move. 

Damn it to hell. 

“Oh, come now,” he sighs, inwardly cursing himself as Hilda holds up the vial he’d stolen from Tomas’ room, “How unbecoming for Lady Goneril. No better than a common pickpocket.”

She ignores him as she tilts it to the light and lets the liquid inside run from one end to the other. 

“Looks like blood,” she says. 

The liquid drags against the glass walls, like the legs of a potent wine. There is something solid in the center, a small dark shape the size of a first knuckle. It clicks against the glass with a low sound. Definitely not wholly solid. Claude is reminded of the crystal that’d come from the golem’s chest with the way it buckles and gives against a harder surface. He sets a hand over Hilda’s when she goes to uncap it and grimaces when she only closes her fist tighter.

“Okay, okay - you win this round,” he sighs, “But leave it as is. No testing without proper air to breathe. Even if it is ‘just blood’. Take a from a man who toys with poisons.”

She fiddles with it a little longer and then, to his surprise, hands it back. She follows the movement of his hands back into his inner pocket.

“Do you think it’s Flayn’s?” she asks, the question sudden enough to be sharp.

He did, but had had no means of proving it. 

“Maybe,” he says and from the fierce look she gives him, it’s obvious she’d caught his thoughts.

Her lips pucker, expression souring as she stares into the distance. With startling clarity, Claude realizes she’s upset. And that he’d never seen her upset before. Not really. She could shed enough crocodile tears and belt enough wailing moans to cover the distance from here to Almyra but he’d never seen her so …

Righteously enraged.

“Let me know if you find more,” she says.

He opens his mouth to make a joke. A careless promise. Anything –

“Did you know Goneril stands as Riegan’s right hand?” she asks, her tone deceptively light, “Not openly of course. The roundtable makes us equal. Levels all our titles and lays them flat over that wooden surface so that we can speak our minds and negotiate fairly for our territories.”

“Oh?” the smile freezes on Claude’s face, a purely reflexive habit as if he’d learned to deal with threat from alley dogs and could only bare fang.

“But we all know the Alliance falls under Riegan. Holst holds the Throat for Riegan because if he buckles, we all crumble. Gloucester can swear until he is blue in the face and rebel at your appearance with his petty barbs and snide remarks all he likes, but before Kingdom and Empire, he’s bound to lay his sword at your grandfather’s feet.”

Claude nods, understanding well enough to know if a single region crumbled, they all did.

“Not so different from the mercs Professor talks about. Simple logic ties us. We’re bound to you as much as you are to us,” she says, folding her arms, “I’m not asking for your faith in me. Believe me, I’m well aware only the Professor has that right.”

“Wait, wait –“

“But you know where I stand,” she says, bumping his chest plate with her knuckles, “So, let me know if you find more.”

“Why, Hilda, are you offering to play Hubert to my Edelgard?” Claude asks, ignoring the uneven stutter in his heart as he reaches out to pinch her cheeks. He gets his hand slapped for it, “Come now. I have to check what poor imposter has taken your place. They could have at least pretended to be the slacker you are.”

“Keep your taunts,” Hilda sighs and then winks at him in blatant mockery, “Such a silly boy, getting all _shy _because a lady like myself pledged herself to his cause.”

The seriousness that’d come over her falls away in light of her typical bubbly giggle. For the first time, Claude wonders what would happen if she’d stood in Holst’s place at the Throat. If she would have carved through instead of blocked it off. 

“Ah, you have me pinned,” he says, offering his own smile. 

He makes no promises just yet. Can’t. Too Almyran-forged to do so so easily. But he takes her arm as he leads her from the tent. 

He holds a hand to his heart, sighing loud and exaggerated, “My fickle nature leads me to only mistresses and occasional dalliances. In the face of such sincerity … why – I am shaken to the core, my lady. Is this – could this be the fabled ‘love’ the minstrels sing about?”

Hilda snorts, “Please as if anyone could turn you away from your beloved _Teach_.”

“As I’ve said before, we _all _have a crush on Teach,” he huffs, unashamed. 

* * *

Byleth sends Edelgard and Hubert to the Kingdom, alongside Dimitri, Bylead, and Hilda. 

_ “Throw a distraction and stall for time,” Byleth says, “The rest of us will cripple the uprising before they can reach the army.” _

_ “Simple plan,” Claude says with a teasing smile. _

_ “All the best ones are,” Byleth only shrugs and examines the new sword her brother had bought for her,_

_ “Best to keep things flexible. Easy to change on the drop,” Bylead says._

_ “Any complaints, your Highness?” Byleth asks, indicating Edelgard’s borrowed Kingdom armor. _

Obviously not. Edelgard imagines she should be reveling in the move. Volkhard would have. Always eager as an alley dog over a meat scrap whenever Garreg Mach sent her to Kingdom or Alliance, salivating for any piece of information she would bring back.

“I’m glad you will be here to bear witness today, your Highness,” Kleiman says to Dimitri, flushed with pleasure, his chest puffed out.

He wears a familiar noble smile. Stretched too wide and hiding too much. Edelgard imagines that’s how the seven houses had looked before the insurrection. 

Power starved hounds.

Kleiman sweeps an imperious hand over Duscar, blind, or at least willingly blind to the tension in Dimitri’s posture, “I have treated people well and offered only kindness. Allowed them to live on the outskirts of my territory. Yet, they would bite the hand that feeds it. We will have to prove the Kingdom’s might. Today will serve as a lesson against any further uprisings, so that you may take your throne without worry. All for you, your Highness.”

Edelgard’s mouth curls and she walks away from them, pretending to observe the broken ruins and abandoned homes. There were few people who lived on the outskirts and not for lack of trying. Some of the homes had been rebuilt in a Kingdom style but she spies fresh marks on their brick and new arrowheads in the wood. This, no doubt, was not the first uprising.

“I look forward to seeing what you are capable of Kleiman,” she hears Dimitri say as she goes. The words fall like a stone weight, too stiff to be truth.

Kind-hearted and too righteous for his own good. Incapable of deceit. Edelgard would have expected a different person to crawl out from beneath the bloated corpses and broken bodies of Duscar and for one long moment, feels a little burn of uncharitable envy.

She, herself, had gnawed the child from her in those dark cells, left it behind like a wounded limb in a bear trap. Built herself cold and cruel enough to shake hands with the very same people who’d laid the trap for her. 

She fidgets with her gloves, feeling weighted and heavy. Regret, an overcast sky over messy senseless thoughts. Never have her memories drifted so close. 

Her blood _hurts_.

She can practically feel the needles back inside her and the heavy weight of the tubing leaving her arms and legs. The sight of them in the dark like maggots, feeding on a live corpse.

“What shall I tell you to turn your mind away from such distractions?” Hubert asks under his breath. 

She doesn’t startle but it is a near thing. 

They are too far from anyone for potential spies to catch his words, but Hubert is nothing if not cautious. She’s surprised he spoke at all. Would have preferred if he’d kept silent. 

She turns baleful eyes on him, bristling at the reproach in his. 

“Distraction, is it? Did I not swear to do away with meaningless death as heir apparent?” she says and grimaces at the sharpness in her voice. She sounds defensive even to her own ears, “We agreed to this mission and we are here already. Please, spare me your reprimand or dismiss yourself from this task.”

He doesn’t budge, unswayed by her protesting as he points to the very root of her thoughts, “I have no qualms against sparing a few soldiers. I only ask that my Emperor not harbor guilt for the actions of others. It is unbecoming of a leader to be laden down and crippled by things beyond her control.”

_It’s simply human to bear regret for the actions of one you worked with and commanded._

She doesn’t offer the argument, already aware of what he would say. It was, ultimately, an incorrect statement. She commanded Volkhard as much as he did her. 

Edelgard presses her lips together against a rough smile, feeling as if she were pulled apart yet again. 

She can practically feel Volkhard’s hand in hers. Recalls the other feral thing that’d torn through her uncle’s face, smiling with deep pleasure at her cooperation. A too-wide smile hiding too much. Noble and power-hungry. 

Volkhard’s grip had been a lead weight, their agreement binding her wrists as the old shackles had.

Her wrists _ache_.

Hubert catches her hand. Pulls it away from her gloves.

He bows his head, pretending he is fixing a button. From beneath his fringe, his eyes are critical. 

“Shall I remind you, yet again, you are faultless? That you were a child, yourself, with little power?” Hubert asks, his lips barely moving with the words, “I do hope you will not order me to spout trite platitudes and repeat facts you already know. You would not waver as Emperor, would you allow yourself to waver now?”

Emperor. She would be Emperor soon. Had known of the title for near five years now. Since her last sibling had died beside her cell, screaming as he beat his own head open. 

_“Failure upon failure,” the voices in the dark had tsked and stepped over the body as if it were nothing but a paper doll. _

She’d sworn her oath over his blood as it’d leaked into her cell. 

“You have only your path to tread. You told me once it can lead to madness and snatch away one’s future. I would thank you to not run headfirst to such an ending so willingly,” Hubert smiles and it is a small and near sinister thing - as all of Hubert’s smiles - but very much real, “You are to lead _our_ path, after all.”

His hand closes over her own, expression coolly placid as he waits for her to pull herself from dark cells once more.

“Thank you, Hubert.” 

Edelgard lets out a breath, bowing her head over the Duscar ruins. Hubert is hatefully right. As always. She could only feel grief for the dead and nothing more. Sorrow for the poor souls caught in fights not their own but she could do little to erase their history.

Still … 

* * *

The battlefield is different than Gaspard yet very much the same. While there is no ambush or magic, there are still plenty of weary men with little to lose, scrambling for just a little bit more.

“Do what you do best. Blend in,” Byleth says. She drifts a hand through Claude’s locks, a little tick in the corners of her mouth marking displeasure, “A shame we didn’t have time to dye your hair.”

“If anything, I can pass for a filthy half-breed,” Claude offers with a little confident smile, fluttering his lashes, “The results of a forbidden marriage between Kingdom and the Dusc – ow!”

Claude grabs for his chin. Byleth's light flick hadn't hurt but it'd certainly been surprising.

“Watch your tongue.”

He raises an eyebrow in question.

“We had good mercenary born between Kingdom and Duscar. Almyra and Fodlan. Leicester and Empire,” Byleth says, “Watch your mouth.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, holding back a grin.

The look she gives him is flat and unamused. For a long moment, he entertains the thought of her in an Almyran court. Mercenary for hire but too talented for anyone but the royal family to afford. He imagines her in the dark corners of the harem, accepting whispered plots and bloody pay beneath golden arches, her expression just as blankly stoic as she took in her new orders. The Ashen Demon, a monster in her own right, would have haunted both his nightmares and waking moments, but if she’d been on his side … if she’d laid loyalty at his feet …

The half-blooded prince in him hungers at the thought of sending her after his cousins. The older him, who understood retaliation and the never-ending churn of that wheel - who had seen the bloated corpses and bloody results of such a thing - sighs and drifts upwards to the skies, aching for a different dream.

Byleth gives him one more long look before she disappears into the crowds. 

“Shall we?” he asks Dedue, offering an arm.

Dedue only nods, wearing the faintest trace of discomfort, and does not take Claude’s hand, instead tugging his helmet so it shadows his face. Claude wonders briefly if he’d insulted the man but it is near impossible to read him. Marking a mental note to himself to address the thought later, he guides the two of them into the army crowd behind Byleth, following in her footsteps. 

Teach moves with sure confidence, without a drop of self-consciousness, and it molds her to the army, blurs her into the background. Claude licks his lips, an uneasy chill on the back of his neck whenever he sees her drift within sword swinging distance of a Duscar soldier. 

It would take nothing at all for her to take heads. Only a thought and it would be done.

If she’d been paid to thin the army … 

A part of him grimaces at the thought but another - the Almyra-bred prince - wonders at how best to arm her. How best to hone her blade. He sticks plots and weapons to her, outfits her with schemes, readying her to be thrown at –

Dedue clears his throat and Claude turns his gaze away, instead focusing on the Duscar general as he splinters their path and guides them to the army’s other side.

“Today we reclaim our home,” their general speaks in grave tones.

Grim determination hangs heavy in the air, the space full of desperate men and the same common theme of loss and duty that’d stirred the folks at Gaspard. The same steely determination bleeding from common folk, unaccustomed to battle and warfare yet frighteningly willing to die for a cause. 

Claude understands that on a distant level but could not bring himself to sympathize. He’d held his own life like a jewel, too precious to be gambled on anything but an intangible ideal. 

Not that it was his place to offer sympathy. Outsiders had little right to judge, after all. 

He flicks a sidelong glance at Dedue, who watches the proceedings with a stone gaze, his back and shoulders pulled tight. His fists clench. Claude wonders if he felt a pull to them. If he thinks he should be on the other side. Among potential friends and perhaps distant relatives. With people who shared, if not the same, similar grief who –

In the distance, a lightning storm lights the sky. Behind him, Byleth’s whistle goes up.

“Kingdom soldiers!” he hears Teach bellow and it is the most emotion he has ever heard in her voice, terror so frighteningly real for a half-second he believes her as the Duscar soldiers do.

Beside him, Dedue goes rigid as chaos erupts around them.  


* * *

What a fitting cry.

The last time Dedue had set foot in Duscar, he’d heard the same terrifying announcement and he sees the same startled terror burn through the crowd. Kindling catching sparks, and blazing alight, just as something explosive erupts behind them.

There’d been fire last time too.

Duscar’s final days drift over his shoulders as the army shatters into individuals scrambling for their lives. 

“Kingdom soldiers at the back!” Byleth shouts from a different side of the army, her voice soon drowned out by a grunt of commands. 

There’d been more panicked screams last time. Of course there had. People did not die silent, especially not when they were being dredged up for slaughter. Especially because they were civilians utterly unaccustomed to such gruesome battles. 

A woman to his right swears and he makes the mistake of following the tremor in her arms to the terror on her face. 

Fear had been all he remembers of that day. It’d been so vast and all-encompassing it’d blotted out the rest of the hideous details and turned his memory into the sun. Impossible to look upon directly lest he burn himself through with terror. For that, he was somewhat grateful.

He does not have to remember what his father and sister look like broken and bloodied. Or his mother as she’d shielded his brother.

All he knows is that the world had been on fire and the heat had been dizzying. The blaze of his home had mimicked father’s forge, twisted a familiar warmth into something dreadful and the thought had made him manic and half-mad. He recalls laughing through his tears as he stumbled from his burning home, something dark and frightening within him shaking out hideous banshee laughter that had frightened him even more. 

It’s how his Highness had found him. Dedue had summoned a half-mad prince with his own madness. Someone painted over in Duscar’s blood, physical and metaphorical, had drawn Dedue into his small protective reach and he’d leaned into the touch with a dying man’s desperation. 

How morbid warfare was.

Fire erupts from the back and he smells something acrid and cloying. Swears he can smell bodies beneath the smoke but no – 

That had only been –

“Move,” Claude reminds him, his tone still light but with a faint edge. 

His slender fingers slip Dedue’s arm guard, pinching hard, loosening whatever hold Dedue’s memories had sunken into his skin.

With a grunt, Dedue splinters away, his grip tight on the handle of his axe. Even in his fog, he’d marked the General’s movements and he follows like a bloodhound, chasing after a man, who even now rushed for the Kingdom army.

“What’re you–?” the man’s shocked betrayal strikes harder than any whip.

Dedue refuses to buckle before the fierce accusation in the man’s eyes, spying the encroaching army in the distance. There was little time and his Highness would be arriving soon. 

Dedue blocks the blade coming to his head as the General rounds on him, ears ringing with the clash of their weapons and the low bellow of disbelief and rage.

“You have forsaken your own people?!” haunting and horrified, the man looks at him as if he were muck off a boot.

It’s very much the same gaze the Faerghus nobility threw at his feet and Dedue closes his teeth around a self-effacing grimace. 

“Think what you will,” he grits out.

Dedue swings with his entire weight, throwing all his strength behind the axe. The back of it dents the man’s helmet instead of taking his head. With a bitten shout, the man crumbles, swaying as he glares up at Dedue. 

“Take your army and retreat," Dedue says and bites down a cry when an arrow finds his shoulder. 

“Back away, dog of Faerghus!” another voice snarls from the dust and smoke.

Two arrows graze his cheek and arm guard, the heads snaring flesh, flying on someone’s anger. He can hear people moving around them. Footsteps encircling. As if he were being hunted yet again. 

He swings his axe down on someone’s back as they charge at him from the dust, aiming to cripple and they manage to slip his arm guard with a sword. The pain slackens his grip. Arrows ping his shoulder guards, one finding a home in his bicep. 

He turns on a growl and the General takes him to ground, sweeping his legs out from beneath him.

“I will kill you for this, traitor,” the man swears through slurred words, his eyes wide and near-feral, bloodshot beneath the river of blood painting half his face.

Traitor. Traitor. Always a traitor.

Dedue grits his teeth against a grimace, bringing up his axe as the man swears at him, refusing to back away from the spray of spittle and blood. They grapple for a moment but there is no losing to a man drowning in desperation. Dedue swears as his axe is ripped from him. His vision blows white, head snapping back as a fist meets his jaw. His nose. The world blurs away beneath red and heat and dirt. He swings blind, aiming to defend. As father had done once against an opposing army.

His fist connects with someone’s nose and he does it again with the same desperation that’d brought him to that burning Duscar alley. A familiar crack rends the air. Something sharp swipes his calf. Another blade whips at his cheek and he swings for them too, blinking back dirt and blood for a fleeting glimpse.

The Kingdom flags blur in the distance. Familiar armor and the sound of hooves advancing – 

“You have to go!” he roars at men fighting a worthless fight, heart pounding at the blur of blue and the thunder of horses. 

Old Duscar burns beneath his feet – 

_There is dirt beneath his fingers and blood on his face. Some of it is his. Some of it is his father’s. Perhaps his sister and brother are here too._

_ He cannot tell where he is. Familiar streets are different beneath flame and blood. Old friends are unfamiliar with wide unseeing eyes –_

_ The fire consumes everything –_

Someone yanks him to the ground as lightning razors over their heads.

“Kingdom’s coming,” Byleth says in his ear, her voice a hard kernel of truth, command like a boulder. She rips her blade from a man’s thigh. Hurls him to another wounded soldier, “Take him. Leave.”

The two Duscar soldiers watch with uneasy eyes as Byleth hauls Dedue upright.

“Please,” Duscar’s old language is rocky on Dedue’s tongue, stumbling and clumsy and coated in rust, “Go before they fall on us.”

“We won’t forget this,” one of them says, still brimming over with anger but she takes her companion and retreats. 

Carefully, Dedue extracts himself from Byleth’s grip, smearing away the blood on his face as she sheds Duscar robes in exchange for Kingdom armor. Byleth’s gaze is directed away, iron and steady as her sword. 

“Take him,” Byleth indicates the general at Dedue’s feet, “Or leave him be. Either way, don’t let him kill you.”

She splinters away towards the Kingdom and he sees her brother’s lightning twist over the skies in a greeting as if welcoming her home. 

He steels his heart against a cold ache as he hauls the general to his shoulder, refusing to buckle beneath the extra weight as he walks into heat and dust. 

He was his father’s son and his father had never buckled. Not before the heat of his forge. Not before the scorn of knights he refused to craft for. Not before invading soldiers and an unwinnable fight – 

Dedue forces himself upright. Steady and tall as he calls out Duscar’s retreat.

* * *

“Why did you save me?” Duscar’s general spits at Dedue’s feet and swears an oath in their mother tongue.

“I will not abide by the needless death of my own people,” Dedue says, feeling wane and weary. He lays his helmet down but resists the urge to crumble to his knees. 

“As long as there is strength in this body. As long as they hold our homeland … I will not relent until it is returned.”

“Then so be it," Dedue bows his head, "So long as you are no threat to his Highness … I will not end your life.”

The man’s face curls with disgust. Tries to spit again but only dribbles blood over his bottom lip. He slings another low swear. 

Traitor again.

“His Highness has promised the people of Duscar a home. His will be a kingdom proud to harbor the blood of both Faerghus and Duscar,” Dedue says and idly thinks he was too young still to be so weary, “Without more senseless bloodshed… I tire of the fires of Duscar.”

Something shudders over the man’s face. A familiar fear. An old sorrow. The man shoves himself to his feet, trembling mightily as he leans his weight over his axe. 

“Idealistic fool,” he says but offers no more insults. 

“Faerghus will change under his reign,” Dedue says. 

The boy who’d trembled and wept over Dedue’s back would never allow another Duscar to pass. Not the same child who bore burns and blade scars on his back for a Duscar stranger, who cried out in the night, plagued by fire and blood. Who had wept at the blood over his hands and burned beneath the flames of warfare alongside Duscar –

Dedue had to believe that. In his fellow survivor. 

“Dedue!” 

Dimitri’s expression crumbles into relief as he runs to them. His hands, much larger than they’d been in Duscar, settle over Dedue’s shoulders, blue eyes just as bright and concerned as they had been back then.

Duscar had burned and Dedue crawled out on the other side, laid ground for himself on the opposing side without regrets. Dedue closes his eyes and bows to a prince he had followed from the fires.

“Prince of Faerghus …” the general snarls beneath his breath, the sorrow in his eyes coalescing into something hard and hateful.

Behind Dimitri, Bylead shifts holds out a hand between general and prince, his expression cautious.  


“We stalled the Kingdom army. Enough that they never found yours,” Dimitri says, undeterred beneath old hatred, “They’ve retreated to the fortress for the time being. There should be no further danger but it would not be wise to stay too long.“

“Your people have retreated,” Bylead points out, his fingers marking out five points against the man’s chest plate. 

“You should join them,” Dimitri says, nodding, “Before the Kingdom comes again.”

The man looks from Dimitri to Dedue, his eyes gleaming still with anger. He shakes off Bylead’s hand. Turns on his heels. His entire body trembles with the weight of too many lives to lay down. 

Privately, Dedue thinks he and the prince would have much to share. They all do.

_ “A fight is a fight. War is war. There’s no room for ideals. Sure, that might have gotten you there but when it comes down to it, all it is is violence and two people on opposite sides,” Bylead says beneath the brilliant blue of Zanado, “You kill one and you run from another. They kill you and someone you love springs to take your place. Round and round you go.”_

“May our paths cross again,” Dedue says and does not insult the man by adding_, “In a different time.”_

Swallows down the words and buries them in his thoughts.

“I hope not. I remember my grudges,” the man spits back and mutters something else in a much lower voice Dedue does not catch.

Dedue doesn’t question it. Nor does he call out to him. He only closes his eyes and bows low to his brethren before turning his face to Kingdom again.

“Thank you for accom –“

“Think nothing of it,” Dimitri says sharply, his blue eyes earnest and bright as he squeezes Dedue’s bicep, “I wished for this as much as you did.”

The flames recede at the touch, old haunts and ghosts sloughing off his shoulders. Dedue smiles, holding a hand over his Highness’. Just two survivors clinging to hope for a different world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, been getting distracted completing too many oneshot ideas (99 oneshot ideas on the wall, write 1 down, pass it around, 32341 oneshot ideas on the wall ;o; )  
and picked up doodling again in between the half fills I do for event weeks lol
> 
> Gonna try to get back on some semblance of a schedule 
> 
> More shippy/lighter chap next time


	29. White Clouds: A Tavern Night

“Where’re my kids?” Jeralt asks in lieu of a greeting. 

Not that Leonie was the sort to mind.

“Welcome back,” she salutes him with a currycomb, “The Professors went out to Zanado a few days ago after Flayn’s rescue - oh! We found Flayn!”

“Well done,” he’d expected as much, but it was nice to have confirmation, “Seteth must be ecstatic. You said Zanado? But they’ve been gone a few days?”

“Must’ve gotten caught up with something. Dedue sent back a message. Only to the Blue Lions though, so I haven’t seen anything. Got Felix in a snit,” Leonie shrugs, “Then again, when isn’t he in a snit?”

“A request came from the Kingdom. Something about a rebellion,” a green-haired kid - Jeralt remembers seeing him at Byleth’s side more often than not - joins them, “But never mind that - Leonie, I was looking for you. I recall you complaining to Dorothea about weapons. Well, I have one to recommend. It would suit a commoner such as yourself.” 

“And like I told Dorothea, I don’t have any money to be throwing around.”

“Oh no, this is free - there’s a legend of a holy weapon hidden in Lake Teutates you can use without a Crest…” 

Jeralt must have twitched. The boy looks at him with sharp eyes.

“Oh? I did not expect interest from you Sir Jeralt. Come to think of it … I do not recall if you’ve ever displayed a Crest –“

“Don’t have one.”

“Hmm,” disbelieving but not pushing. 

The kid's more perceptive than Jeralt would have expected.

“Perhaps this weapon would be suitable for your needs as well. Would you like to join?” 

“Lake Teutates, huh? … Funny, I'm headed out that way myself.”

“Ah, the stars have aligned,” the kid says and claps his hands once, “Let us be off.”

* * *

The inn the Professors select as a shelter has very few spare rooms. As a result, the boys are instructed to share one and the girls another. Dedue does not spend too long with Claude and Hubert before he finds an excuse to leave.

The twins are speaking in half-sentences when Dedue joins them at the bar. He’d always been accused, among other things, of being a man of little words and a stone face. He wonders what those people would say now about the conversation the twins share in half-phrases and mostly glances. 

“Expensive inn,” Byleth says as she tosses her brother a key and coin pouch.

Bylead catches both without looking up. He gestures at the barmaid who pushes over two over-full glasses. Foam sloshes over the rim and both twins duck at the same time to snatch the bit of froth.

Bylead turns towards Dedue when he approaches, shifting his body so as to welcome him into their space. His gaze flicks behind Dedue for a half-second, no doubt spying the few over-zealous Kingdom men who’d caught a glimpse of a man from Duscar and had not stopped watching Dedue’s movements since they’d arrived. Bylead’s smile fades away, expression falling into the same mercenary smooth stoicism that had unnerved Dedue and the other lions upon his arrival.

“Expensive ale,” Byleth says. She acknowledges Dedue with a lazy glance. Her gaze trails over his face and while there is no open criticism there, something about her blunt assessment makes him want to look away.

“I am happy to contribute, Professor,” Dedue offers, reaching for his own coin purse.

“Okay,” Byleth says at once. 

Dedue recalls the same rapid agreement from Shamir whenever she bargained at the marketplace and the fletcher made the mistake of wavering. 

“No,” Bylead says at the same time. He shoves away his sister’s hand with a fondly tolerant look, “It’s my treat today.”

“For the job?” Byleth snorts. She settles back against the bar, her elbows on the counter. She kicks her legs up on an unoccupied stool, “I should take missions from you more often then.”

Her gaze drifts out to the rest of the tavern and like her brother’s, goes cold. Her hand falls to her sword. A few men that’d been watching Dedue find other places to be. 

“Professor, that was –“

Byleth reaches out to rub a thumb over Dedue’s swollen eye, her knuckles grazing the marks on his cheek. The touch is shocking enough Dedue does not shove her away, only goes stone-still beneath her assessment. There’s a dagger hidden in her armguard and a part of him, animal instinct for danger, thinks to jerk away before it found his artery; but, she does not go for it and he does not move. Calloused fingers trek over his face, the coolness of them soothing the ache of his bruises. The last time he’d been touched so carefully his mother had been alive and Duscar was made of stone and buildings instead of soot and fire. He’d been a teen training dutifully to take his father’s place, who would bear marks and bruises from wielding and hefting items beyond his skill set.His mother would click his tongue at him as she fretted – 

“Your Heals are shit,” Byleth clicks her tongue.

Bylead sighs at the insult but offers no rebuttal, only reaches out to smooth more magic over Dedue’s face. Bylead’s touch is warm, an amusing counterpoint to his sister. In Dedue’s periphery, pale magic lights up. 

“This is not necessary, Professor. These injuries will heal naturally,” Dedue says, taking both their hands, “They are a small price to pay. Thank you both for indulging in my selfish –“

“Enough of that. If you want to show your gratitude, you can buy me a drink,” Byleth says, waving off the words. She drains her glass in seconds, setting it down with a rough clink and raising her brow expectantly. Dedue orders her another, passing over his own coin as payment. She doesn’t smile but she claps his shoulder in approval, “Good man.”

Jeralt had called him that once. For doing something just as minor. Dedue shakes his head at the similarities in family and settles into a seat beside his Professor, ordering Bylead another as well.

“Thank you,” Bylead says, butting their shoulders together. He orders Dedue a platter in return, “But, it’s not necessary. We were glad to be of help.”

For a second Dedue expects Byleth to disagree. 

_“I’m not interested in fighting a war,” Byleth says, “Anything between crown and –“_

But she offers nothing. Byleth’s attention is on the cook, watching as if she’d never seen a man prepare a meal before. She’s withdrawn the dagger and is toying with it idly, only sliding it away when the platter is set before Dedue and then watches him eat with a sharpness that makes him want to duck. 

“Was it what you wanted?” Byleth asks after a long moment. There is neither judgment nor criticism in her tone but there is something whip-crack striking about her.

Dedue had overheard Dorothea complaining about the Professor once –

_“It’s like she can see right through my soul. How frightening.”_

She had giggled as if it had been a jest but he’d also seen her taking longer routes to avoid Byleth.

“… The casualties were minimal. I cannot ask for more,” Dedue says. 

“Well …” Byleth tips her drink at him, “You know what you can pay me with if you ever do want more.”

It’s not quite a promise. Certainly not devotion. Nothing more than mercenary bargaining that may lead to very little before kingdoms and crowns; but, Dedue is warmed by the gesture nonetheless.

She steals a piece of chicken from his platter as Bylead leans against his shoulder. Yet another half-spoken conversation starts between the twins. 

His Highness joins them soon enough, wiping the sweat from his brow and smelling of horse and hay. He settles on Dedue’s other side and leans in close - too close to be proper, but Dedue cannot bring himself to correct him today. He finds an excuse for his behavior in Dimitri’s half-besotted smile and sweet words for Bylead.

Around him, the twins’ half-spoken conversations spin longer as Bylead lays his thoughts into words for the prince, explaining for his sister who fixes Dimitri with a knowing, daring look each time he hovers too close to her brother. 

“Kid wants a meal as well,” Byleth says into her glass, “You should feed him.”

His Highness sputters when Bylead holds out a piece of bread to his lip, nearly falling off his stool. 

At their back, there are still those who eye Dedue as if he should not share their space. Beyond the tavern, Dedue’s Duscar still burns. His Highness still carries the weight of too many lives. But for now, Dimitri smiles without hesitation and the shadows beneath his eyes hide away before a laugh and a fond grin. Weariness and grief not forgotten but set aside. 

Dedue feels it in himself. Despite the aches on his face and the stinging pull of his muscles, at this moment, he cannot ask for more than the comfort lent by the company of others.

* * *

Long after her brother and his students have retired, Byleth makes a loop around the tavern, feeling out a little beat against her chest as she goes. She is aware she is a poor watch for the night. Her thoughts are too loud. Unfocused. There is a restlessness in her bones that cannot be settled.

In the long shadows, the haunted specter on the throne leers at her. 

The thing had changed since Zanado. Byleth didn’t know how or in what way; but there had been a change nonetheless and she does not like it. She keeps her footsteps silent but hears the echo of the throne room floors despite her efforts. 

She’s about to turn over her watch to her brother when she spies a familiar face behind the tavern. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

Edelgard startles, straightening from her hunched posture. Her expression is pinched when she turns around, no doubt ready to deny the moment of weakness, but whatever excuse she had come up with wavers at the corners when her eyes meet Byleth’s.

“Milk?” Byleth tilts her head at the cup between her hands, sniffing, “And honey.”

“The barmaid gave me this,” Edelgard explains, a little twist of embarrassment on her face, “When she saw me sitting here. It was … difficult to tell her no.”

Byleth hums in response. She studies the princess for a moment, reading the tension in her posture and the look on her face. This is a familiar scene; although, Jeralt was more likely to nurse ale rather than milk.

Byleth nudges the princess as she sits. A part of her realizes the gesture might be construed as rude but the princess doesn’t protest. Edelgard, instead, shifts imperceptibly closer, hovering but not touching. 

Neither of them speak.

Byleth turns her attention to the skies instead, taking a sip from her flask as she breathes in the autumn air. There’s winter crawling up around the edges. Any other time they’d be readying to leave Kingdom territory, tiptoeing to avoid the cold snaps that would lunge on them like hidden wolf traps. Leicester or Empire would be their next target - most likely Leicester. With the exchange of power and their dubious new lord, there would have been more pay and more jobs. More opportunities for –

_ A broken twin peers up at her from a throne room floor_. 

With no small measure of irritation, Byleth snaps her thoughts away – 

“I thought I heard a rat in our room. They remind me of… no, they bring about worthless dreams,” Edelgard confesses, so soft Byleth nearly misses it at first. When she looks, Edelgard is staring down at her mug, her expression shaded. There’s a fear in her, too heavy for just simple rats. Edelgard speaks to the shadows and looks as if they might peel back to reveal true monsters.

Byleth can sympathize. 

“Nightmares or memories?” Byleth asks. The same question she’d often present Jeralt. 

Like father had done so many moons ago, Edelgard’s lips purse as she sorts her thoughts. Her knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip on her mug, practically trembling with the need for comfort but unwilling to speak on it. 

“Not my business if you don’t want to talk about it,” Byleth says, “Shall we make fun of that guard of yours, instead? ‘Lady Edelgard, you should not be up so late. A leader must have her rest, lest weariness dull her supreme talents.’”

It earns her a giggle and a faintly chastising, “My teacher …”

Edelgard says nothing more in Hubert’s defense and Byleth offers no more barbs, only watches the princess from the corner of her eye as she takes a sip from her flask. Edelgard is certainly not expressive, but in comparison to Claude, she is at least readable. She takes from her mug with the elegantly precise mannerism of a royal, her lashes dimming low over her eyes, her thoughts drifting far away from the comfort of warmed milk in much the same way Jeralt would stare out over the lip of his flask.

The same longing for comfort hangs heavy in the air. 

After a long moment of shared silence, Edelgard speaks, “In my nightmares, my eldest brother is paralyzed and helpless. My older sister is chained to him, screaming for help that never comes. When they die, they die together - as if those metal chains hold more than just their wrists together.”

Her eyes flick to Byleth. Her gaze is critical and assessing, as if judging Byleth’s worth before she laid secrets at her feet. Sharp enough Byleth has the sense that such thoughts are not often shared. She only looks back with a mercenary’s learned stoicism, allowing the noble to gauge her worth in silence.

“My youngest brother … I dream of him babbling words beyond meaning,” Edelgard looks away, taking a deep breath as if steadying herself for her own words, “I was there when he first learned to speak. I am forced to watch as he forgets. He was a clever boy. Bookish. Well-read. My mother was quite proud - I think she was simply pleased to have a child willing to sit for their lessons. And not another child who ran about in muck and dirt with a penchant for dirtying her formal dresses.”

The last part sounds like someone else’s words, too often repeated. Edelgard’s smile does not reach her eyes. 

“He was groomed to stand tall and proud, recite his poems and words before prince and princesses - when he died, choking on his own words, he could not even remember his own name. It broke my youngest sister to see him forget,” she says, “She succumbed to disease soon after.”

Her brow furrows, mouth twitching.

“Or long after. Time in that cell quickly lost all meaning.”

“Are we still talking about nightmares?” Byleth asks, her voice light. Without judgment.

Edelgard laughs and it is hollowed through. 

“Perceptive as ever, Professor,” Edelgard says, turning to face Byleth.

Her gaze is searching, full of want.Beneath the moonlight, her hair shines like something ethereal. Byleth has the sense that they would flow through her fingers like the finest silk.

There’s a question on Edelgard’s face - some favor, some plead - but she does not speak it. Instead, Edelgard leans in until her head rests against Byleth’s shoulder. It’s only a touch. Light as a dragonfly. The princess holds most of her weight to herself as if afraid it would be too much for Byleth to bear, practically trembling against Byleth’s side. She does not answer Byleth’s question.

Byleth’s own dreams hover close. In her periphery, she can see the throne room with its haunted specter. At its feet, its merry band of ghoulish children and at Byleth’s back – 

She grits her teeth.

“Well … if they’re just nightmares, I would do my damndest to make sure they do not come to pass,” she says. She stares into the darkness as if she were facing that haunted specter on the throne, defiance stirring her blood at the memory of that baleful gaze and skeletal form. Edelgard shifts against her and she is aware of the princess’ gaze on her face, “But if they’re memories …”

“I would do my utmost to ensure something so terrible never happens again,” Edelgard says, fiercely. She leans into Byleth’s side more firmly and utters in a harsh whisper, “I had ten siblings once, eight older and two younger. Yet I am now heir.”

The words are quickly spoken like some long-held secret she could not bear to confess. Byleth squeezes her shoulder, leaning back to allow Edelgard to rest against her chest. 

“I am the only one to bear the weight of the Adrestian Empire now. The only survivor. These … nightmares are a reminder to never forget. To never allow such a terrible thing to happen.”

Something shifts in Byleth, a there and gone flip in her chest that steals the next breath from her lungs. Unease from Zanado breathes down her neck as – 

Against her, Edelgard shivers and then pushes away, a gentle hand on Byleth’s shoulder as she rises.

“…I have never shared such things before,” Edelgard says, offering Byleth a hand, “Thank you for listening to my troubles … my teacher.”

“Mmm…let’s go back to the bar. Seems neither of us are going to sleep tonight.” 

* * *

“He’s just a kid.”

“He’s a fucking cheat and a liar –!”

Claude jumps to his feet, spying the glint of a dagger as it exits the man’s belt. He darts backward, spinning around his chair with nimble movements, just fast enough to dodge a drunken mercenary. The table lurches between them. Coins spill to the floor, plinking at his feet. A snarl turns his companion’s mouth. The dagger darts upwards towards his face –

Catches on an armguard.

Metal shrieks on metal.

“Teach.”

Claude latches onto Byleth’s arm out of sheer instinct. He’d glimpsed her coming in mere seconds ago and it’d distracted him enough to reveal the hidden cards in his sleeve. 

With a twist, Byleth disarms his assailant, slamming the mercenary’s arm down onto the table with a decisive thud. She shoves Claude aside with her other hand.

Edelgard does him the favor of catching him, barely moved by his additional weight. She rights him with a heavy frown. He can sense a reprimand on her Imperial Highness’ tongue but she says nothing, only eyes the mercenary warily. 

“Whatever he’s done,” Byleth says, her words slow and measured, “Allow me to apologize as his teacher.”

She tightens her grip when the man tries to lift his hand, forcing it still against the wood. He looks at her with a bleary gaze, half lost to drink, the other half to anger. They focus for a second and to Claude’s surprise, he manages to wrench out of Byleth’s grip. The mercenary stumbles as he rises to full height, meeting Teach’s gaze unwaveringly as his hand drops to his belt.

Byleth’s gaze flicks down to the coins and a frisson of disapproval goes through her. Claude half-expects her to turn to him and shove him forward in offering but to his surprise she only steps in front of him, angling her body almost protectively.

“Apologies are worth shit,” the mercenary says, his words slow and blurring as if it took great difficulty piecing them together. 

His friend touches his shoulder, gaze lingering on Byleth’s face. His entire body bristles as if in recognition. His gaze drops down to her sword. His grip tightens on his friend’s shoulder.

“Let it go,” he says to his friend and then to Byleth, “We want no trouble –“

“Teacher you said?” the man turns on her, studying her for a half-second before he jabs a finger at her throat. Claude catches the flash of a dagger in his armguard, “He’s a thief and a cheat and he needs to be taught a lesson you clearly ain’t teaching him.”

“Ah, come now. What’s a little disagreement between friends?” Claude says, aiming to disarm, “You can keep the gold. It’s only a little –”

It’s the wrong thing to say. The man lurches from his friend’s grip to plant both hands on the table. Claude darts behind Byleth, “Just like that, kid? That’s all it’s worth to you. A bit of fun to be had –“

His eyes trail over Claude and he must glean something from his appearance because something dark and unpleasant steals over his face. 

Claude utters a shout when the man next moves, heart in his throat as Byleth catches the man’s fist. It’s only when he sees blood spotting the coins that he realizes the mercenary’s withdrawn his dagger. Has it planted between Teach’s ring and pinky finger.

“Teach,” Claude hisses, tugging at her coat sleeves. 

As if she cannot feel the pain, she closes her hand around the blade and shoves the man back. Blood trickles down her forearm in thin rivulets. 

“He’s apologized and paid you back,” Byleth says, “It would be wise to let this go.”

“Ain’t enough,” the man snarls back at her, “You know mercs need the fair pay that was promised. And we don’t care for cheats –“

Byleth twists his arm. The blade bites harder into her finger, notching beneath her flesh, deep enough Claude is certain she would cut clean through with another twist. His stomach churns at the sight.

“Then what would you like? More gold? More blood?” she twitches her pinky against his blade like a taunt, “A finger?”

That earns her a leer, something sharp and full of teeth. The man tries to move but is unable to shove her off, “You would give me the kid’s?”

“Mine,” Byleth says and that – 

Claude swallows down revulsion. The thought of someone else taking his place – 

Surely she did not mean it. 

After all –

_“If you want to buy my allegiance, my lordling, you’ll have to offer more than a pretty smile and a cheerful wink.”_

“W-wait, Teach?” a part of him cringes at the tremble in his voice. 

“Professor…” even Edelgard sounds unnerved, “Surely we have more coin to return to this gentleman.”

“Bluffing,” the man snarls. 

And without a moment’s hesitation – 

“I am responsible for those under my watch.”

Byleth twists her hand, wrenching it for –

“Enough!” 

Claude lunges for her, darting out beneath her protective reach to curve his hand around the blade. It cuts into his palm; the pain like a crack of ice, cold and jagged. But that mattered little. Byleth’s pinky – her hand –

He hadn't managed to rip her hand away - Byleth was too strong for that – but he'd managed to twist her off enough that she was bleeding now from a gash over the center of her palm instead of a lost digit. With shaking hands, he wrenches her off, ignoring the mercenary rising to a stand over him. He needed no other sacrifice laid at his feet. Wanted no –

Edelgard yanks the Professor back with two arms under her armpit, assisted by the mercenary’s friend who shoves Byleth away by the shoulder and then grabs for his drunken companion. 

“Enough of this,” he says with a grimace. He sweeps the gold into a pouch, his expression uneasy as he looks Byleth over. With no small amount of difficulty he hauls his still protesting friend to his feet, “We want no trouble from the Ashen Demon. This is payment enough.”

“If you’re sure,” Byleth says, speaking with terrible calm. As if she had been interrupted on a stroll through the park.

The man does not reply, only fixes her with uneasy disbelief. 

The Ashen Demon indeed. 

Claude shudders when she turns her eyes on him, just manages not to cringe away when she takes his hand.

_“I thought I’ve earned no loyalty from you,” _the words die in Claude’s mouth, the jest feeling like sand on his tongue, worthless grit eroding in his mouth.

_“You know where I stand,” Hilda says with too much trust._

People did not cast their lot with him. No matter his flowery words and pretty face. Found no trust at the very core of him and knew better than to search –

“You know better than to gamble for worthless things,” Byleth says. It’s not a reprimand, only a simple statement. 

He did not know better. At the very core, he was a greedy man with very few worthwhile things he would never lay down for a bet. His own life, his parents, his few possessions – everything else had been laid bare before an Almyran court, easily cast aside when it brought him danger. He gambled often for more. Things and people to be cast aside in a pinch. Easily used. Freely disposed. It was not in him to find treasure in others. Loyalty and people blew through his fingers with the wind.

But he wanted –

He closes his fingers around Byleth’s hand. Squeezes. 

_“Won’t you walk side by side with me, Teach?” _

_“Do you never want something beyond your means?”_

All questions he’d asked as a half-jest. Asked more for the sword. He understands them now as a different desire. 

He swallows away another joke. Another jest. Did not dare summon them again. Not here. Not now. Not when she was bloodied by his own hands. 

“I do, don’t I?” he says, his voice scarcely above a whisper as he clutches to her hand, unwilling to let her go.

He smoothes away his thoughts. Summons a smile for Teach.

For now, he can just want – 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today marks exactly one year since this fic was first published :0
> 
> This is officially the longest I've spent on a piece of writing.


	30. White Clouds: Bloodstain

Bylead’s tense in his bed when Byleth goes to wake him. Caught in some night terror or irritating dream. Though he neither whimpers nor turns, Byleth has spent too many years with her brother not to recognize the tell-tale strain in him. She wonders if he’s in the same throne room she sees nightly and immediately shoves him awake.

She grips his shoulder with her unbloodied hand when he startles. Old mercenary instincts send him for a dagger. She sees his hand tensing beneath the covers, twitching towards his pillow. 

“Your turn for watch,” Byleth tells him in a low whisper.

Recognition comes over him slowly. Bylead blinks. First at her face. Then her pinky. A little two-step trip of alarm dances over his face and shakes some of the sleep from him. She sees his attention drift around the rest of the room as if in search of a threat. 

There are only the soft sounds of Dimitri’s and Dedue’s snores in their respective beds and the silent wisp of Hubert’s robe as he rises like a ghoul from a grave. Hubert sheds sleep like a cloak, his attention sharp and focused in the space between one breath and the next. Mercenary keen. He bows to Edelgard’s whispered orders and molds himself to her side, ever at her command. 

Beneath Byleth’s fingers, her brother sags, scrubbing his face as he swings his feet to the floor. Bylead fixes her with a reproachful look, reprimand hanging heavy in the air.

“A drunk went after the kid. I took care of it,” Byleth explains, tilting her head towards Claude and Edelgard behind her. Bylead sighs, some of the reproach smearing away. The weariness in him lingers. Byleth squeezes his shoulder, _“Nightmares?”_

“I see,” Bylead says. He pats her hand absently and then removes her grip, squeezing her wrist once, _“Tell you later.”_

“Claude, join my watch?” he asks aloud. 

“Sure,” Claude smiles, bowing low. For a half-second Byleth believes him back to his old form but when he rises, his smile is rigid on his face, as precisely designed as a masquerade mask.

Byleth is nearly tempted to go with them. It’s not often she sees her house leader so ruffled. She holds back her concerns, attention turning away as Hubert takes her hand.

"Don't think anything of it,” she hears her brother speaking quietly to Claude as he leads him out, “I gave Byleth a scar for her last birthday too.”

Hubert pulls Byleth’s fingers apart and she bites her tongue at the snap of pain at the movement. 

“My my,” he says, turning her this way and that. Something like amusement crosses his face. He retrieves a small kit from his belongings, “Such clumsiness. Allow me to gather my supplies. I will meet you in your quarters. Do try not to nick yourself again, Professor.” 

* * *

Edelgard is half asleep by the time Hubert joins them, lulled by Byleth’s old mercenary stories. Hilda grumbles something in her sleep at the creak of the door. She turns into her pillow, burying her face when Hubert lights a second candle. Byleth soothes a hand through Edelgard’s hair and though the princess resists initially, Byleth can see sleep laying claim to her at last.

Hubert lays a basin and jug on the table in the center of the room, gesturing for Byleth to join him. There is a faint modicum of approval on his face as Byleth extracts Edelgard from her lap and lays the princess on her own pillow gently.

Hubert takes her hand between gloved hands, deftly removing the initial bandages before pouring water over her to clean the wound. He is meticulous and silent in his task, expression unwavering and unflappable as he explores the gash, making sure to clean out any bit of fabric of dirt, unflinching at the bloody sight. 

“Hold,” he says and Byleth holds her hand in the air as he retrieves a needle and thread from his little kit. A flare of magic burns over his hands as he threads the needle, something tinted blue and with the faint absent smell of Manuela’s clinics. 

“Do try not to move too much,” he says and with no hesitation pokes the needle firmly into her finger. 

Byleth holds back a swear at the initial prick and then lets it free when the sharp pang fades away beneath a glow of magic.

“Couldn’t have done that earlier?”

“My apologies, Professor - you’ve only assigned me Faith studies a month prior,” Hubert says with an unrepentant little sniff - insufferable little bastard - and a shake of his head, “And I’ve few opportunities to implement the theories from our books.”

“Glad this’ll be a teaching moment,” Byleth grinds out.

“Ever the dedicated teacher,” Hubert says with a mocking reverence.

Byleth sets her jaw, watching the steady prick and pull of needle and thread through her hand. The motion is rhythmic enough she can soon tune out the muted pinch in her fingers. For his few opportunities at theory application, Hubert certainly moves like a man well-accustomed to the task. His hands are steady and sure. He does not flinch or balk and despite the time of night, there is no trace of sleepiness in him.

_As unflappable as any merc accustomed to dirty jobs._

Begrudgingly, Byleth decides she can appreciate that.

“I must admit, I did not expect such loyalty from a mercenary,” Hubert says, “Or will you tell me, this too, is simple logic?”

“Loyalty?” Byleth can’t keep the snort out of her voice.

“To offer yourself in place of another,” Hubert elaborates, looking nonplussed at her tone, “I must admit, Professor, I’d not believed you the sort to suffer fools. Yet, here you are offering yourself as a sacrifice for mindless gambles and foolish blunders. Admirable loyalty …” 

He doesn’t snort, but Hubert makes a little noise in his throat, just as biting and judgemental.

“This is a job,” she says, “And you all happen to fall under my responsibility. I did what I had to - as Jeralt would’ve done for any merc in his company.”

Hubert laughs, low and deep in his chest. It sounds sinister still but also like a real laugh. 

The motion doesn’t sway his hands at all. He is still steadier than any mercenary hire they’d normally pay to put her back together. Few opportunities to implement theory, indeed. Talented bastard. Byleth holds back a scoff. 

“How knightly,” Hubert says in that half-taunting, half-amused way of his. That little tone that laughed and subtly boasted that he knew more than anyone ever would, “It makes one wonder, why exactly, Captain Jeralt left the monastery. With such noble inclinations, I would have thought he’d be happy to serve the Knights of Seiros to the end of his days.”

“Does it matter?” 

“Not to me,” Hubert says, “But I’d imagine I would be curious about my father’s past life… so that I may judge his sins.”

Byleth raises an eyebrow.

Hubert’s smile turns into a full sneer, “Tell me, Professor, are you familiar with Volkhard von Arundel?”

“Your father?”

“I’ll take that response to mean ‘no’,” Hubert says, “He is Lady Edelgard’s uncle.”

Byleth’s glances over to Edelgard. The princess has her cheek tucked to a pillow, her lashes fluttering. She breathes slow and deep, stirring every now and again. No sign of feigning that Byleth can see. Hubert follows Byleth's gaze and his sneer softens.

“Nice guy?” Byleth asks mildly, indication for Hubert to continue. 

Hubert fixes her with an unimpressed look, “I suppose at one point he might have been. He is the Empire’s Regent now - ‘nice’ is not something he endeavors to be. Years ago, he took her Majesty and fled to the Kingdom. Then, after a time, he returned to seize power. Joining forces with Prime Minister Aegir … and my father."

Disgust crosses his face, stirring from hatred deeply rooted. Byleth has the keen sense that if his father were here now without a witness in sight or people to miss him, Hubert would have struck him down in cold blood. 

“I thought House Vestra has been sworn to House Hresvelg for generations. ‘Since the dawn of the Empire, we have worked to protect the emperor. By any means necessary’,” Byleth recites Hubert’s former saying with a little bit of mockery.

Hubert looks at her blandly. The needle pokes her again. His spellwork holds and she feels only a blunted pinch. Not responding to her needling. At least not physically. 

“My own father is a feckless man with few values. Too easily influenced and blinded by the need for power. He was a worthless father; it did not surprise me in the least to find him a traitor as well,” Hubert says, “When the day comes, that he is to be judged for his sins, I would be unsurprised. My question, Professor, can you say the same of your own father?”

Byleth tilts her head, “We’re mercenary, not saints. I imagine I’ll be there right beside him to be judged.”

Hubert’s thumb smoothes over her knuckle. His hand readjusts to hold her wrist, turning her so as to access the divot between her fingers.

“And in the many years before your birth?” Hubert asks, his tone mild, “Tell me, are you not curious as to why such a devout man would flee the Church?”

“Flee?” Byleth asks, “What a choice of words.”

Hubert smiles at her, serpentine and biting, “I simply think that the good Captain finds many reasons to spend little time in the monastery, despite his return. And he maintains his mercenary band … as if looking for a moment’s lapse to disappear once again.”

Byleth snorts, “Isn’t that slander? Maybe religion just disagrees with him.”

“To a great extent if he’d raised his two children in ignorance of the Church,” Hubert says, “Especially seeing as they were born in Garreg Mach.”

Byleth blinks at him, “I was born outside the Church.”

Hubert’s says nothing, his fingers pressing light against the pulse point of her wrist. After a moment, he goes back to stitching, expression almost pitying.

“I see… Captain Jeralt must have found a very similar face to his late wife; for you bear a striking resemblance to Lady Sitri.”

“‘_m not dead to a pretty face. There was a nun a while back … some … shithole between Kingdom and Leicester. Pretty,” Jeralt slurs at his mercenaries one night on the Derdriu docks. Drunk as anything and twice as sentimental. _

_ Byleth takes a bite of his chicken when it becomes clear he won’t be partaking into anything other than his ale this evening. He slings an arm around her, swaying enough with the motion she has to keep a grip on his chest strap to keep him from toppling into the waters. Their fishing lines have been long since abandoned. The bait had been stolen hours ago and Jeralt’s last attempt at replacing them had resulted in bloodied fingers and all too many foul swears._

_ “Sitri loved flowers,” he says morosely. Nonsensically. _

_ Byleth cannot tell if he’s still speaking of the nun or thinking about her mother again. _

“There are those among the faithful that still remember Sitri Eisner,” Hubert says, his words measured and slow. Dangling before her face like fishing bait, “Of course no one knows of her background. She was an orphan child and she had little interest outside of her studies. A devout follower of the Goddess. Perhaps that was why Lady Rhea, personally, saw to her education. The faithful all know Lady Rhea loved her like a daughter and Lady Sitri was so easily loved. She complained little as a child and even less as a young woman. Never cried. Rarely laughed. Crafted like a doll and just as pretty. Much like yourself.”

Crafted. 

_You, yourself, are no live thing._

Byleth doesn't move but her pulse does, quickening beneath the unyielding press of Hubert’s fingers.

“Flatterer,” she says, forcing a confidence she does not feel. 

Hubert ignores her. 

“Tragically, she perished in childbirth. Lady Rhea delivered her twins alone,” Hubert peers at her, assessing, “Of course no one has Lady Rhea’s talents when it comes to Faith magic. Gifted enough to raise the dead, the nuns claimed; but, only enough to save two lives that day instead of three. Captain Jeralt was inconsolable in the days following his wife’s death. In no state to care for another. Lady Rhea was all too happy to take his place. The nuns claim she couldn’t bear to set them down. So entranced by her new set of dolls. ‘Easy children’ the nuns called them because they never cried. Never laughed. Silent enough to be stillborn. Peculiar, no?”

Byleth shrugs a shoulder, affecting a calm she did not feel, “Do I look maternal enough to understand children?”

The spectre hangs close. The throne room green hovers at her periphery. 

_You were created._

Hubert hums under his breath. 

“What happened to them?” Byleth asks when he does not immediately continue.

“Perished in a fire,” Hubert says and does not pretend to believe his own words. Lady Rhea was in a state and Captain Jeralt … well, perhaps he felt called outside of the monastery. Led by a Goddess who would grant him another wife similar to Lady Sitri to bear him a pair of twins that would be perfect replacements for the two lost. The Goddess must be kind.”

Byleth breathes in a sharp breath, “You’re making some bold accus–“

“Not at all,” Hubert interrupts her. He ties off a knot and then examines her hands, solemn as a school teacher as he looks over his work, “I would never throw about blasé accusations with little to go on but a nun’s gossip and an old maid’s fading memories. Only musing aloud on a marvelous coincidence.”

“Right,” Byleth says, curling her hand into a fist. She ignores the stinging pain as Hubert’s magic starts to fade from her skin.

Hubert smiles. The corner of his mouth dimples.

“I cannot pretend to know a father better than his own daughter,” Hubert says, “It may be as you said - religion simply disagreed with Captain Jeralt instead of the other way round.”

He removes his gloves and pats her hand in a gesture that can be classified as companionable, “No need to mull over the matter, Professor. Do try to avoid another lost finger. I would like to get some sleep tonight.”

Leaving her alone with –

_You were created, _the-throne-room-ghost reminds her. A phantom pain stings Byleth’s rib cage, _For me. And your lot in life is the same as mine. _

* * *

“I did not know,” Bylead says when Byleth tells him, “But I cannot say I’m surprised.”

He curls in on himself. Scrubs a hand over his face. Over his chest, his fingers tap a restless beat. Byleth leans against him, allowing herself a brief moment, pretending they are with the mercenary band again. That the mercenaries are downstairs, readying their packs to depart for Leicester in an hour’s time. That it is Jeralt’s voice she’s hearing booming from the bar downstairs asking for a morning drink. 

“I don’t know why our dreams differ so much either but –“ Bylead pauses. His fingers tap a quicker beat, “Sothis feels different. Especially late at night and in the mornings. She’s been …”

His gaze flicks to the room corner, goes concerned, and then soft. A grim smile curls his mouth.

“She says she’s fine - much like you would,” he says, bumping Byleth’s shoulder, frowns in a way that is more a pout than anything, “But I can feel her weariness when she first stirs. And she feels colder, like waking up in a poor Kingdom inn –“

They both shiver. Jeralt had made that mistake once in winter and had learned never to spare coin again. 

“Feels like my throne room,” Byleth says, her skin raising with goose flesh as she recalls the chill. She pries for the spectre but it eludes her. Never willing to play by her laws like any hateful ghost. 

Bylead sucks in a sharp breath, frowning at his hands. 

“Your … Sothis? … has anything changed with her?”

Bylead looks at Byleth, his expression uncertain. As if it had only struck him now the absurdity of his question. They were mercenaries after all, far from the sort to question ghosts and fleeting dreams. They share a moment of longing for the time they’d only thought of this mission and the next, the first mark and then the next. Byleth utters a frustrated sigh for them both. 

“Same old ghoul. She feels different I suppose but…,” Byleth pauses and then makes a loose gesture with her hand, unable to describe. Bylead seems to understand nonetheless. His expression goes pinched with concern. She ruffles his head until he drops it, swinging an arm around him, “I won’t go fading away on you. Not if I could help it.”

That earns her a little chuckle, tight and tense but a chuckle nonetheless, “Bold words. You sound as if you would fight the gods for the rights to your own death.”

Byleth snorts, kicking at his legs as she rises, “Who says I won’t?”

She stretches out, twisting until her back cracks satisfyingly, “No use mulling, come - I can hear the children stamping their feet in eagerness.”

“Or out of annoyance,” Bylead says, rucking up his shirt to strap his daggers around his chest, “Your house leader was irked to find out you didn’t tell him about our birthday.”

“He would be irked if someone forgot to tell him they were on their monthly bleed - inquisitive little – wait, our birthday?”

“I don’t buy you drink on any night.”

“That’s only because you are a hateful spendthrift.”

“Yet, I appear to be the only one to have given a gift.” 

Byleth shoves him. Bylead shoves her back as they exit, the two of them pretending for the moment there are neither ghosts nor mysteries walking in tandem. 

* * *

“Seteth.”

“Felix.”

“You going somewhere?”

A needless question. Felix arches an eyebrow over the row of books Seteth has laid out over his quarters, his gaze drifting over the empty rows on the bookshelf and the mess of scattered belongings on Seteth’s desk.

“Only a small journey,” Seteth says. He thinks to promise a return but cannot make himself speak the words, “Can I help you with something, Felix?”

“Not particularly - Rhea asked for what I remembered about the library battle,” he says, holding up a little scroll. He sets it down on Seteth’s desk and then plucks through the books on the table, “I was also thinking that I should be pardoned.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your lecture from last time –“

_Busybody, Seteth can hear Macuil’s criticism as he takes hold of Felix’s arm, separating him from a furious Ingrid who is storming away. _

_“That is quite a distance you intend to keep from others.”  
_

_“What does that mean?”Felix asks, eyes bright and challenging.  
_

_“That you keep others at an arm’s length,” Seteth angles his body, indicating Ingrid’s retreating back, “And others even further.”_

_“And what of it? Are you going to lecture me on the importance of friendships and allies? Tell me that ‘to defeat your enemies, you must have dependable allies’?”  
_

_ “Not at all,” Seteth sighs, “I only wish to remind you that there are limits to what one can achieve alone. It is not weakness to need allies.”_

_ “Ha – people who revere knighthood and glorify death are no allies of mine.”_

_ “Perhaps, but as unwavering as those convictions are, others also feel strongly about their own. You cannot hate all those whose beliefs are different from yours. It will lead you to hate everyone eventually. People with exactly the same beliefs as you simply do not exist. Give your friends a chance.”_

“I think I should be pardoned,” Felix says as he picks up one of the picture books, “Or does your advice not apply to you and Rhea?”

“You heard,” Seteth realizes, old distrust rising in his chest, blooming like a dark rose. He eyes Felix warily before realizing he is looking at only a student. A young boy. 

A fledging child, _you should be kind to _\- mother would have said.

He grimaces at the thought. Slumps in his chair. 

“Only a bit,” Felix says, shrugging a shoulder, “Enough to know Rhea is an aunt. And Flayn has a father instead of a brother.”

“Yes,” Seteth sighs, “I would ask that you keep that secret to yourself.”

Felix shrugs, “Who do I have to tell? After all, I have few friends to share it with.”

“Felix…”

“It’s a hell of a thing feeling like the only one who gives a shit, isn’t it?” Felix interrupts him.

“Language,” Seteth mutters but does not care to mean it.

Felix ignores him, paging through a book - a fairy tale about a commoner stumbling into knighthood - with a grim look on his face. He hovers partway through, fingers tracing the image etched on the page - a young boy, stalwart and tall in armor too large for his body.

His voice is distant as he stares at the image, “How is Flayn?”

“Alive,” Seteth says, “That is all I can ask.”

“Hn. And has Rhea asked after her?"  


“Felix –“

The boy shakes his head. Derisive. He sets the book down. 

“You know about Duscar?” 

Seteth blinks at the uneven conversation, full of staccato beats and abrupt changes. He replies anyways. 

“Only stories. Your brother was one of the royal knights and a former student of the Officer’s Academy. He gave his life to defend the prince, as he had been trained to –“ Seteth pauses, “I see.”

Felix nods sharply.

“Go on, say it – my father had no issues. ‘He died like a true knight.’ When Glenn’s armor was brought back. Duty above all else. Even family.” Felix’s lip curls, “Hateful isn’t it?”

Seteth thinks to offer something comforting. Something kinder. More appropriate of an advisor to the Church. 

_“I’m thinking of taking her underground again when she awakens.” _

_ “Perhaps for the best,” Rhea says, absently. Her attention drifts. Her thoughts turning elsewhere. She's saying something, speaking of duty, saying too many words, none of them correct –  
_

Familiar anger stirs in Seteth’s chest, drumming against his ribs. He breathes out slowly, leaning back in his chair.  


“Indeed.”

“So. I think you’ll have to pardon me if I do not feel like seeking out relationships with people I disagree with so strongly.”

“It was never my place to pardon you, Felix,” Seteth sighs, “I am only an old man giving a younger man advice he, himself, is incapable of taking. It does not mean it was not good advice."  


“Hn,” Felix doesn’t smile but his frown softens.

* * *

A magic temple. 

An ancient beast.

Jeralt would have loved this. Many years ago. Back in his first life.

After all, he'd been a knobby-kneed brat with a too big head spoiling for a fight at every turn, thinking to earn acknowledgment and glory through his fists alone. He would have relished an unwinnable fight against a dragon. 

Much like Leonie. 

She darts past him with a wild scream, without hesitation. Without fear. Her lance gleams as she swings for the Immovable’s head with a joyous ferocity. She is thrown – of course she is – and she curses fiercely about it. She does not acknowledge the near-miss of her head against stone pillars, only spins out of Jeralt’s catch, bouncing on her heels in eagerness. 

“Thanks!” she throws back. And then she is gone again, dancing around the Immovable’s feet, learning to dodge around a great beast much the same way Jeralt had learned to fight around Rhea’s –

A tail cracks over Jeralt’s nose.

He shouts, the muscles of his neck pulling taught around his scream. His shoulders slam into stonework and grow wet with water and blood. His head spins as he blinks up at the Immovable, gritting his teeth around bloody swears.

“Oi Linhardt!”

Linhardt unleashes a spell. For all his hesitation and dislike of battle, he is quick with a command. Cutting Gale razes over the Immovable’s back, the sound of air shrill and shrieking as it flays  <strike>flesh scale skin</strike> hide. Leonie cracks out beneath the thin arcs of the spell, her hair and armor glowing green. Her lance twirls, burrowing deep into the Immovable’s ankle and it roars at her with a monster’s scream.

_Rhea shrieks and the world around her buckles. Jeralt bows his head before the wind can take him to his knees, feeling the full punch of it against his shoulders. He whoops at her strength, lunging to his feet, running after her shadow –_

Leonie whoops, sliding under the creature's bulk. She shouts again as she readies her stance. Shoulders bowed. Arms tense. With a roar she stomps her feet, marking out a stand and drives her lance upwards, shattering her weapon halfway into the Immovable’s mighty jaw. The dragon moves, his great eye blazing as he bends one massive head down and down, throwing the entirety of his massive bulk at a mouse at his feet – 

Like a damn house toppling from a cliff –

He falls on –

Jeralt gropes for his borrowed dagger as he runs for them. Beneath his palm, the hilt burns. Something writhes against his skin. Sickly magic. Hungry and wanting.  


_“Blood was part of the deal,” Arundel says with a little smile, handing him a dagger. There’s a vial tucked into the compartment at the hilt and magic etched onto its blade.  
_

_ He folds his hands, watching Jeralt with a keen, hungry gaze. As if the blood was for him to drink. _

_Jeralt ignores it as he holds the dagger to the center of his palm, pressing it deeper and deeper into his skin, his stomach churning in revulsion as the blade bleeds red then black, heating up and nearly trembling as it drinks up Jeralt’s offering. It twists in the wound, lapping at the blood, ravenous as a live thing, nearly salivating and Jeralt watches with cold revulsion as the blood drains to the hilt, collecting in the vial, filling up in a direct reversion of Seiros’ gift – _

Jeralt rips the blade up over the Immovable’s great snout, his hand planted firmly on a wet inhuman mouth, twisting his wrist to dig in where the flesh is thinnest, carving the messy jagged edge of his borrowed blade into a nostril. The dagger trembles. Burns with the first bite of blood. He feels it come alive, writhing like a feral dog in his hand. The heat of it is a hot poker, too full of magic and –

The Immovable roars. Slams him to the ground, pinning him beneath massive paws. 

Jeralt coughs wetly, breath sucking and weak – a familiar sound. The same one that'd rang out at the end of his first life – 

His ribs creak. His skin parting beneath a massive claw –

Jeralt swings out again, half-blind, snaring the nostril, carving into the previous wound, drawing down to the Immovable's mouth. 

It must hurt. Must sting at least. Surely –  


The dragon pushes forward and forward, unaffected and –

_Immovable._

Rhea hadn’t been nearly so unshakeable even as a dragon. Then again, Rhea was meant to be unstoppable instead of immovable. 

Just like his twins.

One immovable. One unstoppable. 

He hates the thought. Anger burns alongside adrenaline, roaring in the pit of him. He does not want to see and be reminded of Rhea’s presence within his blood – 

_ As if his blood were not hers._

Jeralt’s mouth fills with the taste of it, his vision graying as pain swims up his chest, cresting like a wave, growing until –

The Immovable’s breath rasps, dry and rattling as a desert breeze carrying sand. His eyes draw sharp, pupil pulling into one long thin line. His tongue rattles between bloodied teeth, flicking over the ridges in a move Jeralt recognizes from –

“Seiros.”

And the weight is gone.

The Immovable hisses beneath his breath. He drags off him in a slow slump. Receding like the tides. 

“Jeralt!” one of his mercenaries roars out and in a dizzy blur of color and movement, grabs for Jeralt’s shoulders, hauling him back until –

“Leave him be,” Linhardt snaps, slapping the hands away. A pale face swims before Jeralt’s eyes. His hair glows – 

A green near enough to Rhea and his touch is cold, like the brush of scales–

Jeralt snarls. Draws back. 

“Stay still,” Linhardt snaps again and his Crest blooms at his fingertips – oh, it was his hands glowing. 

Jeralt breathes in a clean spring breath, shuddering as magic fills his lungs, pushes away the iron in his mouth, dampens the pain on his skin. 

“Like father like daughter,” Linhardt mutters but Jeralt barely hears it beneath Leonie’s roar.

He glimpses a hellfire of orange and brown lunging for the retreating dragon. Sees his lance - when had she? - arcing the air, the point gleaming, ramming into the Immovable’s jaw alongside the first.

With a grunt, the Immovable backs away, his nostrils flaring, a warning snarl rumbling in his throat. His claws shriek against the stone as he clatters onto a platform at the temple edge. Healing magic pours over him, rising from the stonework at his feet, matching the tides at the temple edge.

“I see … students of Garreg Mach,” the Immovable says, his voice like falling stones, low and tumbling. His words are uneven. Slow. As if it had been centuries since he’d last spoken. Perhaps it has.

He looks to Linhardt. Then Leonie at his feet - watching her bounce on her heels, still spoiling for a fight. 

Then Jeralt. 

“I see,” the Immovable mutters again.

Cryptic as any old beast.

At Jeralt’s side, the mercenary band scrambles around him, blades and bows clattering as they stare down the Immovable. As if they have a chance of winning. 

The Immovable breathes out a long sigh. Bows his head.

“I will consider this my defeat.”

Jeralt grits his teeth at the non-victory.

“Really?” Leonie shines, eyes bright with eagerness, “That means I get a wish right?”

The Immovable’s face doesn’t move. Too reptilian to emote but Jeralt senses a judgment there. With a low, rumbling sigh, the Immovable disappears beneath the waters. 

When he emerges again, there is something golden and gleaming in his mouth.

The Inexhaustible.

Glittering and shiny as any legendary weapon should be.

Yeah, back in his first life, Jeralt would have loved this.

As Leonie does.

Her eyes shine with wonder at the sight of it and she holds her hands up to the Immovable, palms flat and elbows at her side in a near mimicry of the old Knights of Seiros before Rhea. Her head bows over the weapon, mouth parting in silent awe. 

Jeralt could laugh. 

“You have shown might deserving my sacred bow,” the Immovable says.

_“You have shown loyalty and faith, deserving of a reward,” Rhea says._

“Really?” Leonie asks with a wonder that came from only youth, something both reverent and greedy all at once. She bounces on her heels and then stops, grimacing a little and favoring one side, but the injury is quickly forgotten before a weapon of legends. She receives the bow with both hands, unflinching beneath a dragon’s teeth and an inhuman mouth that, until moments ago, had hovered over her ready to tear.

_“I have sworn an oath to you and only you, Lady Rhea,” Jeralt wheezes. There is a wetness to his words. He is drowning in his own blood, he realizes. He smiles at the Archbishop though he cannot see her, vision blurred with pain. Something sharp touches down on his arm, long and inhuman. The Immaculate One, with her ivory wings and shining scales, has graced him with her touch. He hears a soft hitch of sadness in her voice. Dying as it is, his heart pounds at the gesture. At the care a saint and blessed creature would feel for him, “Only you Lady Rhea. I am proud to have served as your shield.”_

“Thanks, Mr. Magic Beast!” the words are glib but the respect is there. 

Leonie tucks a fist to her chest. Bows low. Far more respectful than he'd seen her in the Monastery.  


The Immovable says nothing only nods, watching with the same distant interest one would show a stray animal.

_“For your faith,” Rhea tells him when he is recovered, her expression gentle and infinitely giving, too kind to for any human, burning with the sort of quiet serenity and all-encompassing affection of a saint. She folds her arms in front of her, aflame with something other. _

_ He touches his chest. Feels only smooth skin. His fingers curl and he bows before her. Offers her his second life as well._

“Your palm is burning, Captain Jeralt,” Linhardt says, his voice pulled tight with concern as he lifts Jeralt’s hand. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something like a gagging sound – unbecoming of a healer – and then layers a healing spell over the palm, “Goddess – that’s _disgusting_, Captain, what on earth –“

Linhardt goes very still. His words fall silent. His fingers graze the dagger he’d wrested from Jeralt’s grip, drifting over the ragged hilt, over the –

Jeralt sheaths it, tucking it out of sight in his inner pockets.

“Cursed weapons,” Jeralt shrugs, “Guess that’s the last time I try one.”

Linhardt only blinks at him, his gaze distant and faraway. 

Always half-asleep, Jeralt remembers Byleth saying.

“Get my back, will you kid?” he asks, patting Linhardt's hand.  


Linhardt blinks again, stirring out of his thoughts. His fingers glow as he lays a hand on Jeralt and he makes another gagging noise under his breath, “Ugh, I hate blood.”

He says it as if it should be a trait shared by everyone, all full of quiet indignation and disgust. Jeralt cracks a smile that feels like a grimace. 

The saint’s blood in him roars in his ears. 

“Funny,” Jeralt says, offering a shoulder for Linhardt to seal up, “I do too.”

* * *

“And how is Seiros?”

The question comes from the waters, booming over Jeralt’s shoulders. 

He looks back at the half-sunk temple. Without the students and his mercenaries, the space is too vast. Too quiet. Each sound bounces off the walls, echoing into something like a heartbeat. Jeralt closes a hand over his chest, pressing against the unsteady pound of his heart. 

He wonders briefly if the Immovable can smell the traitor on him. 

If he cared to.   


“I imagine much the same since you last saw her. Unwilling to let things go,” Jeralt says slowly, “You saints are creatures of habit after all.”

A small chuckle. Low and bitter. Full of old sorrow. The emotion is too close to human. 

Jeralt doesn't like to think on it. He turns his back.

“Yes,” the Immovable breathes out, “Such is the sin of one who has lived too long.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Another chuckle and then a sigh. The Immovable vanishes beneath still waters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(:3」∠)_


End file.
